


Combustion [English]

by saphique



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bernie POV, Bernie is a lesbian disaster, Confessions, Despair, Dialogues in chapter 2-3-4, Domestic Bliss, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, First Kiss, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Internal Monologue, Masturbation, No Ellinor, No Jason, POV Second Person, References to Depression, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Serena is the sweetest human being, Sexual Frustration, arm-wrestling to win the bed, confessions on a sofa, emotional dialogue, sexual emancipation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-08-22 16:45:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16601756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saphique/pseuds/saphique
Summary: The days go by, your frustration accumulates, and you are tired of crying. You become aggressive at work, you isolate yourself, you claim risky operations, you focus on your responsibilities to the point of erasing your surroundings. You almost prefer the solitude of silence to the pleasant company of Serena, your precious friend. Surely, she suspects something, and your guilt resurfaces and sucks you into its black-hole. Therefore, you push Serena away. She invites you several times to relax at the fireplace at her house, to have a drink at Albie's, to catch an insignificant comedy at the cinema, but you discard these invitations that would've made you happy if there wasn't this implosive emptiness in you that prevents you from functioning. And it makes you cry, again.*Final chapter will be translated in Mid-September but you can read the complete story in the French/original Version :)





	1. Mal-être

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Combustion [French]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16476065) by [saphique](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saphique/pseuds/saphique). 



> If you are able to read french, I encourage you to read the original version as the poetic effect is much more present. Enjoy :)
> 
> English is a second language for me. I'm sorry if it shows in the syntax.

Throughout your deployment in the army, you have been familiar with sufferings of all kinds. You've experienced physical pain, exasperation of ineffectiveness, coldness of isolation, anxiety of lack of food, rage of inequality. In addition, following these long years of marriage that were ultimately years of camaraderie, you also felt the guiltiness following your declaration that resulted in a divorce. You are a lesbian. Having unintentionally hurt the people who loved you and whom you shared your life with, you feel like an impostor and a thief. You're finally being honest, nonetheless you do feel a bitterness.

Having recently experienced a Copernican revolution, having realized that a satisfying and fulfilling sexuality could exist, it has become a curse. An obsession. Being a lesbian. You've had a rebirth with Alex, and now Alex is gone, has turned into a ghost, away from you, out of you, leaving you only memories of exaltation and enjoyment. You seriously worry about becoming addicted, because there isn't a single moment where your erotic recollections aren't haunting your mind. Does this impede your work and the relationship with your colleagues? You drive your children away from you, as a habit. You've never wanted them to perceive your unhappiness during marriage, and even though you're finally emancipated, you are plainly as hopeless, because you suffer terribly.

No suffering is comparable with the simultaneous pain of the being and the soul, this miserable sexual frustration. The feeling is indescribable, because it is rooted in the body as much as it is manifested by emotion. A painful accumulation of all these years of repression. A resentment of coldness, an icy impression, a knot wedged in the throat that prevents talking, an embarrassing and threatening void, a certainty about your own uselessness and insignificance. As a doctor, you understand the hazards: you can become depressed and amorphous, cringing.

How can you overcome this? How can you cure this obsession, fill this void, this sexual frustration? How to remain yourself in this body you don't recognize anymore, burdened with vivid impulses you aren't familiar with?

The schedule of your days is automatic. Having previously done everything to avoid monotony, you step in the pitfall of routine. You wake up with soaked underwear, obvious evidence of those dreams of women who made you shudder; you shower with special consideration to your breasts and clitoris; you drive your car on the usual streets of your neighborhood while imagining a female companion at your side. Fortunately, at the hospital, there's an immense diversity of pathologies to work with and you willingly accept these distractions. You refuse to seduce your patients, you follow by the book the ethic's code. You interact with your colleagues, especially Serena, and you find yourself closing your eyes in order to better appreciate the warmth of the hoarse tone of her remarkable voice. Although, guiltiness hits you directly in the face. You refuse to fantasize about your friends, mainly Serena, whom you really appreciate. Your friendship is enjoyable, it grows in quality, and your libidinal state will never corrupt this development.

When Serena speaks to colleagues or patients, we feel the steady respect shown in her voice. You could not dream of a better partner, nor a friend so thoughtful. Your friendship is discreet, it displays into the little courtesies, the egalitarian considerations, the division of the tasks, the 'partner in crime' glances, the sharing of bottle of wine after a challenging surgery. She welcomed you into her limited circle, invited to use her office, and never made a reproachful remark when the whole hospital knew that you had cheated on your husband with a woman. Serena is a friend who forgives if she feels respected, and you promise to the universe that you will perpetually protect and tirelessly support this woman, so precious to you. You like to compare Serena to a welcoming cloud of warm rain on the shriveled desert of your landscape.

When you cross path with wonderfully attractive women - in the cafe, in the elevator, on the sidewalk, at the shopping center - you can not find that inner strength that pushes you towards them, to offer them a promising smile, to court them with delicacy. Because you feel desperate, and you fear that these women could sense your anguish. At every missed opportunity, you remain lonely, and more and more distressed. A vicious circle. But you want to break free from it. You severely need to make a step in this world of mutual seduction and femininity, that world existing in parallel without including you and despite countless invitations to enter, you are not able to. You want to be wonderful for your upcoming partner, but your weakness sickens you. Above all, you dread humiliation, you worry that all your actions are perspiring the despair of your soul. You are terrified of it. You endure several nightmares where you hyperventilate from anxiety in front of a naked woman who _wants_ you. You do not count the number of visions where you run away, where you stood your partner up because of endless quaking, because you can't act normally. You are terrified of being unable to make love to a woman, too affected by the thirst.

And you feel immense regret, you're so ashamed of all these hours you spend masturbating pathetically without satisfaction. Altogether, your own monotonous sexuality is repugnant to you. A dull, repetitive, mechanical monologue. You always end up in the same place, alone, desperate, unsatisfied, sharing quick and uninteresting orgasms with objects, helping you to reminisce your dejection and especially your loneliness. Every so often, your entire body suffers from scorching sparks, sometimes it is frozen and drained of all its life.

Opting for a hormonal imbalance or a serious consequence of menopause, your hormones have been checked, however everything works as it should, controlled by supplements. Disappointed, you would have preferred if your problems could've been solved by medicine, but that is a failure. It confirms that your sexual frustration is related to your history, your desires, your psyche, all these years when you've disavowed your true nature. As a child, you didn't receive any proper sexual education, especially not linked to female sexuality and all that is related to it. You have never had the opportunity to dialogue with women _about_ women, about the sensation of being an active subject with needs to fulfill.

You can no longer distinguish the craving of your body, what is sorely lacking. Is it being touched, or is it touching? Is it both simultaneously? You hate living in the past where you constantly go back to the few times where Alex slipped her delicate hand against your pubis, where she entered you vigorously with two fingers while holding your hips down and silencing your body in order not to attract suspicions. You see yourself lying between her long thighs, enjoying each droplet of her excitement and diving to the source of her wetness with your tongue and your appetite. Echoing in the back of your head, you still hear your own grunts of pleasure when reaching orgasm, these involuntary meows every time your tongue harvested her musk. You still manage to feel your cheeks smiles of satisfaction at the realization of having made your companion _come_ with your mouth, with your breath, with your teeth, with your tongue.

You start crying, on the way home, when you find yourself alone, desperate, with an existential emptiness, exhausted to desire, tired of missing. Still, you try to pursuit this raw hunger by masturbating with the vigour that you have left and more often than not, an orgasm calls for a second, a third, less and less satisfying. Frustration deepens. It is exhaustion that attracts sleep, and with tears in your eyes and throat knotted, you drift to slumber with these women who haunt you with their eyes, with their curves, with their laughter. Do they laugh with you, or at you? Fortunately, in dreams or in reality, Serena constantly offers kind smiles. Sometimes friendly, sometimes cheerfully sarcastic, sometimes playful, and sometimes laughter accompanies them, but her smiles are always sincere and comforting.

Repeatedly, in public, you are convinced that your movements are interrupted by pain, your gait feels jerky, from fear of breaking or exploding. As if your body exhausted by the lack of intimacy could suddenly split in two. This dread is unfounded, obviously. Yet, you are apprehensive. You fear that your sexual frustration is legible in your movements, in the way you hold objects, in the way you address people. Subsequently, you work harder to master every movement, every detail in your posture. No trembling, no tremolo, no avoidance.

This frustration embodies the key to your mystery. Because you, Bernie Wolfe, are enigmatic in the eyes of others. You emit the opposite of your worries: unerring self-esteem and a form of detachment. From one place to another, you recognize the whispered sayings about your impartiality, your discretion, your confidence, your professionalism, your swiftness. It's the cruel accumulation of frustration that gives you that superior, crisp look, when in reality you're holding back from exploding.

In the army, you have already been the victim of a physical, criminal detonation. The wounds on your body are healing. But you are frightened, you are afraid of another type of explosion, that emotional surplus, that overflow. You're afraid to explode because you can't envision what's going to happen. What can really happen to you if you do explode? How would this truly manifest itself? Of course, often you burst into tears. You can also masturbate roughly, quickly, anywhere, anytime, during inappropriate moments, rubbing your clit through the fabric of your pants with the tips of your fingers. Or rub yourself vigorously against a pillow. Sometimes sobbing, sometimes furious. Always with despair and dissatisfaction. By living and reliving this pathetic setting, you are convinced that you will eventually explode. You are afraid to unveil how weak and infirm you are.

You panic, you put yourself in danger by taking risks. Insightful, Serena notices a change in your being, an edginess that didn't exist before, that only a close friend can notice in the comfort of your shared office. One day, she makes the remark, and you hasten to feign fatigue, which is not completely false, but you assure her that a good coffee will help. From the corner of her eye, she tries to tell you that she believes you, but you're not fooled. You know it's too late, Serena perceived something and you mentally admit this fact as an indication that eventually, you'll explode, if others can begin to perceive betraying signs. Others, or only Serena? You suppress your tears by proposing to go and fetch this coffee you badly need. On your return with two cups, the hot liquid relaxes you, but then again you are in obligation to look away when your colleague moans with pleasure while sipping her own drink.

Serena believes that your state of mind comes from your divorce. To please her, not to disappoint her, you agree. You sweep the conversation off by promising to rest, to finalize the divorce papers as soon as possible in order to move on. You've done well, until Serena suggests that you'll feel more comfortable finding a girlfriend, in order to truly move on with your new life. You have to squeeze your thighs and swallow the boiling coffee at once to chase away that void in you that grows, grows, grows.

The days go by, your frustration accumulates, and you are tired of crying. You become aggressive at work, you isolate yourself, you claim risky operations, you focus on your responsibilities to the point of erasing your surroundings. You almost prefer the solitude of silence to the pleasant company of Serena, your precious friend. Surely, she suspects something, and your guilt resurfaces and sucks you into its black-hole. Therefore, you push Serena away. She invites you several times to relax at the fireplace at her house, to have a drink at Albie's, to catch an insignificant comedy at the cinema, but you discard these invitations that would've made you happy if there wasn't this implosive emptiness in you that prevents you from functioning. And it makes you cry, again.

Despite yourself, you are surprised to be sexually aroused by situations that acutely do not interest you. During these terrible and endless nights of insomnia, while your clitoris contracts and you're so wet without even touching you, you can't help but open your cell and click on any amateur video of a lesbian couple fucking, and no matter what you see, what makes you reach orgasm is the idea of women who mutually give each other pleasure. Their moans. Their eagerness. Sometimes, you simply close your eyes and let yourself be rocked by their love-making, you squirm laboriously, biting your lower lip and you _come_ without even touching your body. Nonetheless, you are humiliated each time, and again, and again. Pornography will never be a valid source of excitement because you are not completely convinced of the women's consent behind the screen. Your experience in the army still gives you nightmares, sometimes even nausea. You will always keep a place in your heart for these survivors of sexual exploitation that you have supported and cared for in Eastern countries.

Above all, you restrain yourself from going towards what's easy, towards the known, towards what does not arouse you. Men. Why not go back to Marcus? With him, your sexual relations were neither painful nor disgusting, however they were uninteresting. You are indifferent to men, you do not worry about disappointing them or not satisfying them. You never want to feel sperm run down between your thighs once more, the whole thing is against your nature. You do not feel any inspiration to return to the arms of men since this situation was precisely the one that prevented you from blossoming. You are reluctant to think of easiness. Oh, how much you want to be brave and plunge into the arms of those women whom you desire so vigorously!  You feel trapped by the discovery of your real sexuality, your lesbianism, this imperative part of your being that pleads to be heard and respected.

Physical activity, such as sports, is known to reduce sexual frustration. You have proved otherwise. True, your morning joggings do bring you a good heart rate and firmer muscles, on the other hand, your sexual frustration is always present, because the sweat that runs along your body and the tiredness in muscles are not triggered by a healthy sexuality, and you are so saddened that your frustration gains in strength.

Dawn, a new day begins. Without having fully started yet, you already know it by heart. You anticipate the spiral of the vicious circle. When you wake up, you try to avoid the clenching in your lower abdomen, you hurry to shower with colder water than necessary. You eat a breakfast as bland as your routine and you swear to moderate your explosive temperament, to pass through this day without impatience, without masturbation and without crying. It will be a quiet and hasty day.

Catastrophic, the day is nothing like you expected. A car pileup on the highway, successive tragedies, deaths that could have been avoided if there were enough hands to help. There are too many victims for the number of doctors. You can feel the employee's despair behind the stretchers entering the emergency floor. Too many screaming, abundant calls for help.

As always in these situations, you dive in your obligations as a doctor and you maintain control over your emotions. You excel, you are an example of speed and efficiency. No case seems lost in advance, you opt for all solutions to ensure the survival of your patients. But there are situations out of your control, such as deaths confirmed immediately after going through the emergency doors. After endless hours and the nightfall, your ears are buzzing and well-defined dark circles outline the underside of your eyes. Your fifth operation is finished. Exhausted to the point of no longer being able to take care of your patients, you offer the succession to the surrogate doctors who came in reinforcement. You promise to come back in six hours. You recognize the murmur of guilt in your ear, and you chastise yourself internally. You're deserting your team, but you're no longer reliable when you're so exhausted. You refuse to leave before seeing Serena. How is she? In what state is she? Past midnight and the hospital seems to be calming with the twilight.

You find Serena in your office, sitting at her desk; however, she is in a scarce position. The lights are closed and Serena is showing her back to the door. You can only have a glimpse at the nape of her neck and her hair is messed from the removal of the surgical cap. From the trembling of her shoulders, you understand that her breathing is uneven.

You call her by her name. You always love to pronounce her name, even when it's not solely necessary, but here you pronounce it out of necessity, out of concern. Her position adjusts slightly, she recognizes your voice. You understand that she wipes her face with the edge of her sleeve. She turns slowly towards you, sniffing, and you finally see her pale and defeatist face. At the sight of her condition, your heart stops pumping its blood.

An eternity seems to have passed between today and the last time you truthfully laid eyes on Serena. How long have you been pushing her away? This tragic day seems to have made her age. She is still beautiful, despite her humid cheeks and watery eyes. For once, the urge to cry is not caused by self-hatred, but rather by the sympathy felt for your colleague's sorrow.

You kneel at her feet, instinctively, and you take her hands between yours, wishing to warm them, transfer a little of your own heat. You give her your complete consideration, suddenly so apologetic to have ignored this sublime person during these past weeks. Looking in her eyes, you see a sadness that you have never seen beforehand.

Quickly, chasing the tears away, Serena confesses that she lost her last patient on the operating table. Is it from exhaustion? Is it from lack of resources? Is it from incompetence on her part? You refuse to hear this pity. Serena sinks into resignation. Despite your innumerable comforting words, Serena doesn't believe you. You continue, you reassure her with beautiful sentences full of truth, about her resources and capacities. You even dare to drop a light kiss the top of her hands while you hold them tenderly, acting as additional comfort. But Serena stays there, staring at you, without really listening to you. You anticipate something.

Suddenly, she speaks. Almost as a whisper, she pleads you to explain the reasons for your avoidance. Why, you, her partner, her friend, suddenly abandoned her in such a mysterious manner? For no apparent reason? What did she do to deserve to be rejected? Tears of fatigue and confusion slide down her cheeks, run down over your intertwined hands. She wonders if she frightened you with her friendship, with her natural desire to take care of you.

You stammer, the words jostle to your lips without being able to use them. You can only mumble and stumble upon the glimmer of despair in your heart. Serena remains silent and she stares at you magnetically. Her tears continue to drop. It must be contagious. It looks like a mirror. Because you feel your own cheeks becoming wet. There it is again, the striking fear to explode. The emptiness opens up in you and you wonder if you will definitely fall at the edge of the precipice, once and for all.

Instantly, your lips join those of Serena, eager and begging. All unspoken words transform into complaints against her mouth. Serena is taken by surprise, but does not push away. She groans from astonishment and merriment. Your intertwined hands are now detached, each taking support wherever they can. Yours cover Serena's neck, while hers hold your head and grab your hair. Your kiss lengthens, moistens, waltzes.

Eventually, you have to breathe. What you perceive the moment your lips are released is enough to make you lose your mind. Serena's eyes, puffed up by the tears, stare at you with affection but also with wonder. Her mouth, slightly open and flushed by the force of your kiss, is trying to regain a normal breathing. She is radiantly beautiful, despite her exhaustion. Nothing is as beautiful as Serena, right now, and you, knelt at her feet.

Until you realize what you did. You panic. Words break out, you can not stop asking for forgiveness. You explain that you were not thinking clearly, that it was not an excuse to kiss her without permission, you didn't want to take advantage of her vulnerability. With fluidity, you admit to having done the first thing that went through your mind, and this confession, you can not erase it, and it astonishes you.

The kindness in Serena does not disappear. She doesn't look angry or disgusted. It even seems that this incident dried her tears. With her outstretched arm, she grabs a handkerchief to wipe her nose. Gently, she interrupts you in order to say everything is fine, there is no harm. She confesses that a little tenderness in this moment of despair can't be rejected. She blows her nose, and smiles, with all the genuineness of the world. Her formidable, characteristic smile is contradictory to the sadness in her eyes. She caresses your cheek and uses her thumb to wipe a new tear that wanted to arise from your eye. Once again, she reassures you that everything is fine. There is no harm. She pronounces your name, to bring you back to reality, because you are frozen on the spot. Can you truly be certain of Serena's forgiveness? The void is conceited in your abdomen, generating pinches and heat. Your ears are burning. Your heart is tense and you do not understand who you are anymore, nor what you want. You're so scared of blurring the lines, hurting Serena and dragging her into this chasm that catches everything in its path.

A colleague announces his presence in the doorway, and obviously he is sorry for his indiscretion and interrupting this tense moment, but he explains that Serena must absolutely complete the papers concerning the deceased patient so that the family can proceed to formalities. He leaves as quickly as he appeared. You recognize the desolation on Serena's contrite face, and she looks at you with intensity.

Your body is shaking and you're running out of breath. You sit up quickly, stuttering, and without even realizing it, you begin to recoil, as if you're afraid of your movements. You still stammer, but you manage to say you'll be back in six hours, you absolutely must rest. You tell her you are so, so, so sorry. You're about to tell her something - but what? - but then you grasp the doorknob without saying a word, except that moan of panic you expelled loudly, unable to hold it, and it still rings in your ears.

You run away. Your actions give credit to Serena's accusation. She blames you for weakening your friendship, forsaking your bond, from being so distant. And here you are, in the middle of the night, disappearing from hospital ground with the salty taste of her tears against your lips.

You hate yourself, you urge to hurt yourself. Unable to drive in this state of panic, you board a taxi and you do not worry about sobbing in front of a curious witness. Your tears do not disappear, they increase in intensity. When you arrive at home, you crash in front of your bed, sitting on the floor, and you cry violently, with shaky shoulders. You need help, but you do not know where to start. You feel foul and dizzy from lack of oxygen. A few minutes later, under the weight of exhaustion, your consciousness weakens and torpor takes hold of you.

There's a distant sound, bothering your slumber. Hidden in the pocket of your coat, the alarm of your cell rings and vibrates. More than five hours have already passed. When you open your eyes, the sun caresses your cheeks. They are dry, however, you still feel the lines of your nocturnal tears. You realize you haven't changed position, still crumbled on the carpet, your back against your bed. Your legs are benumbed and you are relieved that this numbness offers a break from distress. For once, you aren't waking up with your hand between your thighs to fill the shivering void that runs through your being. This time, your hand goes naturally to your mouth, where lies the souvenir of the pressure of Serena's lips. A kiss that you triggered, stolen. Impostor, thief, swindler! ...

Your throat is tense to the memory of your offensive. Quickly, your attention is preoccupied by your coat's pocket where emanate the vibrations of your alarm. In less than an hour, you must head back to the hospital. You know the importance of breakfast, but nausea is stronger than your well-being. Shower is hurried, and despite the distraction of the boiling water flowing over your body, you only manage to picture Serena.

 _Serena_.

Serena, who failed to save her last patient on the operating table. Serena, who quickly forgave you for kissing her without warning, who repeated again and again that everything is fine. _Serena_. You've abandoned her on one of the most difficult days the hospital went through.

While the boiling water floods your senses, you reflect on your behavior. In the confusion of your frustration, you are putting your relationship with Serena in danger, the only one that really matters to you. By estranging Serena from your torment and not being honest with her, you're injuring the bound you strongly shared. In desiring to comfort her, therefore kissing her, you have transgressed an important rule in friendship. You absolutely must be sufficiently brave and face up to your suffering, find words to your troubles. You can't continue this life, alternating between tedious orgasms, continual frustrations and repressed sobs. It is imperative that you find a well-balanced state, for your health, and for Serena.

If you really do care about your friendship, you must demonstrate courage. You ask yourself what is most important to you: is it the inexhaustible hatred addressed to yourself or is it the tender relationship that Serena addresses to you?

A boost of energy encourages you to speed up your preparations to get to the hospital. Determined to break this vicious circle, to find the proactive and confident Bernie Wolfe that you have already been, you focus on your qualities, on positive words about yourself. Gathering as many compliments as possible about yourself, to become a better person once more. You're not just a frustrated and miserable middle-aged woman, nor a fallen soldier, nor an evasive mother. You can regain control, you can ask for help. Speak, open up. You promise to do it.

For now, the hospital - and Serena - are in need of your expertise, your self-control, your confidence and your rapidity. You are famous for being fearless, it's time to implement it.

The taxi ride takes place without a hitch. Upon arrival, you make a small detour to Pulses, ordering two coffees and pastries, not knowing if Serena has time to grab a bite. As you approach the emergency floor, you feel the tension and the comings and goings of the employees. The situation didn’t calm down. Your department have exceeded the capacity of stretchers, the number of nurses is insufficient and everyone is running out of equipment.

The night doctors are relieved to see you back among them. You let them know you're quickly heading to the consultant's office to drop off breakfast and put on your scrubs before going to meet them. You're looking for Serena, you're told she's resting in the on-call room, overwhelmed. She never got home, continued supervising all night, offering her help here and there, without attending a new surgery, considering the fatalistic turn of the last. You imagine her collapsed on the sole bed of the room, fighting her remorse and pleading for sleep.

You take control. You promise yourself that when Serena will return, nothing will worry her. You assure yourself that you will manage each situation, take care of each intervention. Consequently, you call reinforcements, you impose procedures usually reserved for disasters, you use an authoritative but poised tone of voice, you encourage your team, in survival mode. You require the certainty that Serena will never cry again. Never again.

Several hours have passed. Finally, you feel comfortable in your skin, and properly distracted by this sense of accomplishment and productivity. You are hassle-free when in action. Things are going well, patients are stabilized, your team is reassured. Time passes so quickly that you are the first surprised to glimpse Serena's silhouette entering the emergency floor.

Her posture displays relief as she notes the remarkable work done. You are relieved to see that she seems in better shape. She wears her civilian clothes, she always has a spare set for the unexpected, such as a sleepless night. From the bedside of the patient you are watching, you smile at Serena, with a wave of your hand. In the distance, you recognize the rested expression of your friend, and you celebrate your victory as she reaches your office with a reassured step. She seems motivated to attack this new day.

You give yourself a little break to join Serena at your shared office to make sure her she feels alright. You greet her and tell her you're ready to bravely put up with well-deserved reprimands about your inadequate behavior from last night.

The only reprimand you get is the complaint of having displayed a cold coffee on her desk, but she thanks you for the pastries. She laughs. It's her way of soothing the atmosphere. You smile shyly. Not knowing what to do with your hands, you slip them into your pockets and you hasten to ask her how she's doing.

Serena sighs, and chooses honesty, telling you that she is not proud of herself. She did not have the heart to leave the hospital last night, remorse prevented her from giving herself a break. She was trying to feel useful after the death of her patient, but going around in circles only tired her more. She managed to sleep a few hours. In return, she asks how you are doing.

You also choose honesty, admitting not being proud of yourself either.

Suddenly, her whole body comes alive with contagious energy. Serena refuses to hear you demean yourself like that. Her voice rises up with pride, she is amazed by all the work you've accomplished since this morning, she gestures towards the floor of the emergency. She compliments you and insists on your indispensability.

You smile naturally, how can you not offer a smile in return for these beautiful words so precious, flattering.

But, her enthusiasms moderates as her voice regains a more whispered modulation, and she firmly orders you never to flee again. Never again. You categorically have no reason to run away. This is neither a proposal nor a request. It is an injunction, issued by a broken voice, by a mysterious melancholy. She does not want you to go.

Serena tells you she does not want to lose you. A high-pitched sound pierces your eardrums, forcing you to wince, as if these words weren't welcomed by your subconscious. Serena cares for you, she refuses another estrangement, another abandonment. It would be impossible to bear. You acquiesce, you promise. You will never run away again. And Serena will never cry again.

Your bodies are facing each other, and your breathing mirrors hers. You both inhale and exhale at the same rate, a familiar and easy cadence. Serena takes advantage of this time to savor your promise, and you take this time to verify if the sadness in her eyes has disappeared.

After a few moments of pleasant silence, you feel brave enough to try a witty remark. You say that you also guarantee that there'll be no more stolen kisses.

To your surprise, Serena's mouth utters unexpected words. It would be a shame, she answers. As she explained to you just a few hours ago, this kiss did not bother her, on the contrary, it was a guilty pleasure greatly appreciated by her ego. The circumstances, although, were not favorable to a deeper affection.

The high-pitched sound piercing your eardrums reappears in a flash. Have you heard correctly? The hissing sound could lead you to deafness. Disobedient, your body censures Serena's confession by making you unresponsive. You are a witness to the urge between your thighs, to the pain in your chest, propelling suggestive images and waves of desires. Doomed by the inappropriate return of your hormones and stunned by the change of mood, you ask Serena to repeat, at least to clarify what she just said.

Serena's understanding and patient smile is displayed on her beautiful face. She simply tells you that you are a very beautiful person, that she was pleasantly surprised by your outburst of affection. Since you're both two middle-aged women too taken by work to devote yourselves to a serious relationship, why not take advantage of this undeniable sexual chemistry to comfort each other with stolen kisses during painful moments? Unless you regret it, of course?

You almost forget to answer, and this delay causes Serena to worry. Is she mistaking about you? Did she misinterpret the situation? Did she talk too much? Suddenly uncomfortable by your silence, Serena becomes troubled. Her hand plays nervously with the pendant on her neck.

Stunning thoughts whirl in your mind, mingled with exhaustion, illusions and reality. Is your friend suggesting that these kisses will happen again? Be fast! Get yourself together! You must reassure this incredible woman who is currently believing that you do not approve.

You reply. You regret the way you kissed her, certainly. Except, you can't lie to her, you don't regret the kiss itself, even if, through your culpability, you couldn't take full advantage of it. You didn't think twice, you simply couldn't bear the sadness on her features.

You ask for forgiveness again, even if Serena says there is nothing to forgive. You stare in front of you, not daring to look at your friend directly in the eyes.

 _Bernie_ , she articulates with a sublime tenderness. Your name emanating out of her well-defined mouth always manages to bring you back to reality, to capture your entire attention, to shrink your vision to the only entity present, and you finally look at Serena in the eyes. You'd prefer knowing she's compliant with this situation than slightly hoping for a second kiss.

All is well, she repeats to you. Although, Serena pushes the conversation further, confessing disliking this permanent expression of sadness that's been occupying your face for far too long. She knows you aren't well, as known for some time now. You recognize in advance that her next words might be indelicate, from the biting of her lower lips. You are ready to hear what she has to say. You stare at her mouth with intensity, knowing that unimaginably pleasurable and legitimately difficult confessions can come out at any moment. The beauty of a sincere friendship.

Serena speaks. She would like if you'd confide to her, because she is utterly worried. For several weeks, your attitude has changed and your endearing personality is hidden under evasion. In other words, you've changed, and not for the better. Serena thinks you're neglecting your finest features by bestowing isolation. For the sake of your friendship, for your own well-being and on behalf of the hospital's efficiency, she'd appreciate if you'd explain the reasons behind this unhappiness. She reminds you how important it is for a doctor to be in the best mental health.

You promised Serena wouldn't cry, ever again, and you swore you'd open up and free yourself. So, it is out of the question to inconsiderately refuse her proposition. Without admitting the nervous tremors of your voice, you accept. Yes, you will acknowledge your condition. Without elaborating on the consequences of a future conversation about your state, you allow Serena to become your eventual confidante, because you could never refuse her anything.

The emotion on your friend's face is indescribable. A grandiose enthusiasm that she tries to conceal under her reassured expression. She invites you for a drink at Albie's tomorrow, after your shifts. You nod, shyness making you speechless, your hands still in your pockets. You do not work tomorrow, Serena forgot it, but you don't mind coming back to the hospital just to see your friend. However, you don't mention it. Serena thanks you in advance for your trust, and she points out that you both need to get back to work. The aftermath of medical catastrophes often set aside surprises.

Delighted, Serena gets back to her desk and dives in her paperwork to catch up the administrative interruption of the disastrous night. And you, you turn on your heels and head back to the bedside of your patients, trying to chase this flabbergasted look that shows on your usually sober face.

How does Serena manage to completely upturn your states of mind? She manipulates you like a puppet, and you allow it freely, because you understand this is for your own good, and you are willing, decided to give everything to Serena.

Suddenly, you understand the imminent obligation to reveal the causes of your sorrow. Too affected by the tender moment exchanged with you friend, you disregarded the true nature behind your promise. Can you choose to lie, a little? Serena is an open-minded woman, comfortable in her body, having an easiness for sexual discussions, and you share relatively the same age. Having the chance to be around Serena is a gift from the universe, and the universe has convinced you: you can trust Serena. You can confess about your sexual frustration.

The nature of your impending confidences being so sensitive, you realize that Albie's isn't the most appropriate place. From fear of hurting Serena, you don't dare to delay your appointment on such short notice. Since you're aren't working tomorrow, you're thinking of inviting Serena to your apartment. You will have time to prepare the ground, to concentrate and create a heartfelt atmosphere. You turn back towards your office to propose this arrangement.

Instead of moping, tugging between cowardice and anxiety, you feel a vigorous energy, as if your mind is finally thanking you for accepting the opportunity to open up, to share the torment of your frustration with a person who seeks your well-being. The dark voices of anguish in the back of your head almost convince you that you don't deserve Serena's commitment. These voices are muted by the warmth of Serena's smile as she agrees to meet you at home after her shift tomorrow evening. Her smile increases in intensity when you mention that there will be a bottle of Shiraz. You make her understand that if she's too tired, following recent events and lack of sleep, she can cancel whenever she wants. No danger, she answers with certainty and a wink. You blush without noticing it.

The remaining of your shift passes by without a hitch and you're grateful. Today, you do appreciate every case being stabilized, you'd despise unwanted surprises, for once. Serena has gradually started meeting new patients while you're taking care of the regulars. You are proud to say some patients can get their leave. Therefore, you organize your own parting by finalizing the reports of the day. You greet Serena briefly, who's busy with a patient. Before leaving the quarters, you point to your cell making sure she sees it, to let her know that she's free to communicate with you if there is anything. She nods while smiling at you.

In the locker-room, you become feverish. You focus on Serena instead of what you're going to say in her presence, if you're brave enough to finally talk. You repeat to yourself that an allied friend is definitely healthier than an ignored friend, and Serena will feel valued if you prove how much you trust her. Your excitement increases in intensity as you drive your car to your home.

You've never invited Serena to your house in the past, and you scourge yourself for not doing so earlier. You'd never imagine experiencing such a peaceful keenness upon her visit. The simple notion of Serena's upcoming presence propels you to scrutinize your apartment, consider every corner. Mortified, this is where you truly grasp the fact that it's been far too long since you've _felt alive_ , see yourself _inhabiting_ your apartment. Eating, masturbating, crying and sleeping ... This routine settled your daily occupation and nightmares. How long have you been trapped in this vicious circle? Occupying your mind and body with these damaging repetitions?

Having a friend over. How strange and unusual this notion is. Working in the army does not develop hostess skills, and you have spent so little time in the marital home. You need a moment of reflection to plan how you want to greet Serena. Tiredness advises you to get to bed, recover, and then you can get up early to transform this abandoned apartment into a cheerful one, in honor of Serena.

Once showered, after nibbling a snack, you slip under the covers. At this moment, you become aware of the aches of your body, your tender muscles, the stiffness of your neck, the soreness of your joints. You let out groans of discomfort, not knowing how to position yourself. You hope for no sign of insomnia, humidification between your legs, woman's breath to tickle your dreams. You only wish to sleep. You need to recover from all these recent events. You want to be able to calmly think of Serena without anxiety, without frustration, without remorse.

The morning comes, or rather leaves room for noon. You've slept, slept so much that you feel disoriented. Your eyes adjust to the bright sun and immediately you look at your cell, worried about missing a call from the hospital. Nothing. So, Serena is doing well in reality just like she was in your dreams, where she was watching you with affection.

Reassured, you get up, motivated to start a new day of housework. You pick up your bedding and start laundry, while the coffee maker starts. After breakfast, you equip yourself with your cleaning products and pretend this is workout. You refresh the air, you open the curtains, you dust every piece of furniture. There is a small leap of cheerfulness in your approach. You feel a tranquility in your movements and in your breathing.

Suddenly, you realize you no longer feel that unbearable heat between your thighs, or humidification in your underwear. Your body is certainly animated by a pleasant excitement, but it is neither desperate nor frustrated. It is eager, yes, but not aggressive.

The extent of the housework required almost the whole afternoon, and to be honest with yourself, you're more alarmed about your neglect than ashamed about it. Your body experiences a respectable tiredness in addition to a pleasant feeling of accomplishment, intertwined with a growing anticipation. You surprise yourself having a smile on your face. You're smiling and yet you are alone. This achievement makes you smile more.

Your apartment is all set to welcome your friend. The lights are warm, soft pillows are displayed on the sofa, the wine is placed on the coffee table with two cups, the fireplace is lit and its flames dance against the opposite wall. You have even prepared a simple supper consisting of red lentils and stir-fried vegetables, if Serena feels peckish. Given your mutual fatigue, you haven't determinate the duration of your exchange, therefore you prepare yourself psychologically for all eventualities.

Maybe Serena will prefer to stay only for a short time, maybe she'll want to spend the evening with you. With all your strength, you try not to think about that peculiar conversation about probable kisses to share, because you want to focus on your friendship with Serena, whose abrupt and sincere reconciliation solidifies the foundations of your relationship.

Now that you've heard the house bell chime, it's too late to turn back. Serena is currently behind the door of your apartment, and your heart is hammering in your chest. Is it the joy of seeing her? Is it the embarrassment of inviting her to enter? Is it the anxiety of the main topic of your conversation?

When you open the door, you know that your smile is already massive. Serena's reflects yours. You invite her to come in and warm up inside. She takes off her coat and you politely remove it from her hands. The fabric is hot, you touch the heat of Serena. You moan discreetly when hanging the coat in the closet. You make a sign to head to the living room where you will be joining her. What are these pinches you feel in your stomach? They are so different from the contractions of frustration that tortured you lately, they are more tender, but equally penetrating.

It looks like Serena has always lived here. You are surprised by the synergy between the surroundings and her body, as if each room welcomed her like a queen. All the lights are flattering to her, the temperature is pleasant to her, the colors of the furniture are in harmony with the manners of Serena. You're positively stunned, to the point where you almost forget to escort her to the living room. Quickly, you find her and offer her a glass of wine. You are dazzled by the metallic rays of her silver hair.

With a groan of relief, Serena accepts the glass of wine that you offer her and she settles, rather lets herself fall, on the sofa before even receiving the invitation. She sighs with satisfaction that the day is over, delighted to finally be able to sit on a couch. She is at home with you and that warms your already ardent heart. It's a real pleasure to see her so relaxed. Serena thanks you for inviting her, she tells you that she's been waiting for this proposal for several months now. She's teasing you by congratulating you for finally managing to propose.

You ask Serena how was her day. The fluency of this question strikes you right to the heart. With easiness, you love this domesticity, rather than hating the banality of the question. With Serena, you accept it with happiness. As you've already noticed, Serena embodies the welcoming cloud of warm rain on the shriveled desert of your landscape. You breathe better and your ideas become clearer.

Comfortably seated on the sofa, each occupying one end, you pour wine while discussing the vicissitudes of the hospital. Anecdotes of the army, confessions about patients, harmless complaints about colleagues. Time flies. The first bottle of wine is finished, the second is placed on the coffee table, between dinner plates you've improvised quickly. You both eat with appetite, you laugh, you drink. The position of Serena's body on the couch is less and less formal, you find a natural and relaxed ease. Serena's body is rather elongated, her head resting on the edge of the sofa, her legs bent under her. Her own relaxation inspires yours.

It's late, and fatigue is reflected on the dark circles of your eyes, but an unlimited energy streams between you. Like old friends who find themselves after years of absence, you never miss a topic of conversation or enthusiasm. You are inexhaustible.

Of course, you do not forget the main reason for Serena's visit. The dreaded moment dread presents itself, it's time for you to mention your great despair.

Serena recognizes the appropriate time. She leans discreetly towards you, as if to maintain an atmosphere of confidentiality despite the fact that you are just the two of you. She asks if you're ready to talk. To reassure you, your friend makes you understand that you can tell her everything. You suspect that worry is displayed on your face, since Serena swears she'll be supportive and understanding, no matter what. She says she suspects something serious about you, is worried.

You bite your lower lip. You wonder if you can speak to Serena. Something serious about you? Is it considered serious no longer being able to function like a normal human being, simply because sexual frustration is so prevailing it fluctuates the course of your days? Is it considered serious, or rather pathetic, to cry every time you masturbate, because loneliness and dissatisfaction are pitifully painful? Finally, you're wondering if this head-to-head is a bad idea. You feel weak.

Without offering a reply, you quickly drink the remaining of your wine in a swig. You're so close from apologizing, admitting this is a terrible mistake. But the softness in Serena's eyes warms you, and you promised never to hurt her again. What about promises of not inadvertently frightening her, disgusting her? You want to protect her from your sordidness, while shielding your friendship weakened by being distant.

Persevering and caring, Serena encourages you to verbalize what bothers you. She even offers to verbalize out loud a list of assumptions, to avoid you the harm of formulating words too difficult to pronounce. You agree, moved to have such an indulgent friend.

This time, she does not bring up your divorce. She suggests a burnout, but suddenly she retracts, knowing how much you need to work, to contribute, to feel useful. You smile weakly, she's right. She knows you so well, and that scares you, because what will happen when Serena will discover the real reason behind your troubles? Your throat is tied by apprehension.

 _Could it be depression?_  she worries.

No, well ... yes, maybe you're depressed. Maybe it brought you there, since it's extremely degrading, your shame is so vivid. That's what you answer her.

Grandiose is the word that comes to your mind to describe your impression of Serena right now. Generous, Serena is devoted, as if she had caught the time to immobilize this moment and give you all the silences necessary to help you collect your thoughts. She waits a few seconds before continuing with her suggestions.

 _Could it be of a sexual nature_? she adds.

Staring the empty glass in your hands and feeling your eyes water, you nod so quickly to the point of stunning you. How relieved you are, not having to articulate these words! When you finally look up at your friend, Serena's face darkens, and the lights in the room create ripples in her moistening eyes. Something is going through her mind. It looks like her face contracts, too. No! Will she cry, again? You promised never again Serena will cry because of you. What is going on? She manages to open her mouth, and her words are muffled.

 _Have you been sexually assaulted_? she asks as skillfully as she could, her lips trembling.

 _Oh no! Of course not_ , poor Serena. You set down your glass of wine, you gently turn to her with all the sincerity of the world to guarantee you haven't been a victim of sexual crime. You use a tone of voice with composure and solace, leaving no room for doubt. Relieved, Serena expels a nervous laugh, hiding her face behind her half-open hands. With her palms, she massages her cheeks, wipes her eyes

 _What a relief_ , she tells you, almost shrieks. She was so scared of you being hurt. Laying her hands against her heart, she now confesses that no matter what happens, nothing is dramatic. She repeats to you that you don't have to be afraid of judgment. There's nothing you can't overcome, as doctors and as friends.

In what embarrassment did you put yourself into, by your immaturity and cowardice? If you could finally speak, get over your terrifying fear of sickening your friend. Serena is right, all of this does not have to be so mysterious or laborious. The tension is evaporated, everything feels lighter.

With humour, Serena orders you to refill her glass of wine. Oh, how relieved she is, how exhausted she has been for so long, thinking this sadness in you might be related to sexual assault! _Bernie, Bernie, Bernie_ ... You'll end up killing her, she's comments, making fun of you. You gladly fill her glass of wine, and you watch her swallow. Without being able to hold back, without further ado, you confide to her the reasons of your condition.

 _It's sexual frustration_.

There, it's said.


	2. Bien-être

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small modification. I opted for clearly indicated dialogues because there are a lot of them. I hope you will like it.
> 
> Please be kind if I mix US and UK English, keep in mind I had to write this story twice for the translation.

_It's sexual frustration_.

There, it's said.

Following your words and the unveiling of your condition, Serena interrupts herself in her drive to bring her glass of wine to her mouth, and you find her comical in this position, the raised elbow, the glass immobilized to her lips. Serena does not look completely convinced that this is your secret. She seems dubious, as if waiting for a sequel, for an aggravation. She blinks quickly, puts her glass back on the table and turns to her side.

You can't dare to look directly at your friend, much less change your position. Both of you are seated on the edge of the sofa, back slightly bent forward, elbows resting against knees.

All of a sudden, once confessed, once delivered, your secret does not seem so spiteful, so threatening, so reprehensible. However, its consequences on your mental and physical health are damaging. Moreover, you keep being terribly afraid of judgment. You've always been terrified of judgment and it justifies why you work hard to excel in your professional sphere, to impress people who play an important part in your life. At the present time, you're terrified of Serena's sentiment. You wait. You are patient, but the wait is terrible. You still can't bring yourself to turn your gaze towards your friend who stares at you with care.

Suddenly, that dearest voice of hers, the one that always manages to reassure you, reaches your ears.

"Is that ... is that all? Oh, Bernie ... it happens to everyone, at some point in our lives. I swear you're not the only one, it's pretty common," she reassures you with ease. She sighs happily and relief is painted everywhere on her features. "You have got to stop worrying me like this, bloody hell!" Her hand is resting on your knee. This gesture is more to support her unburdened being than to console you. "This is perfectly normal."

Normal? You're not convinced. How could it be, when you're at that point where you constantly cry during the aftershocks of an orgasm? You never hear stories of women who lose their mind because of sexual despair. There are only these ancient, inaccurate stereotyped stories of frustrated women or nymphomaniacs, these misappropriations of meanings that muzzle the true urges of women in search of fulfillment.

You can't speak, crushed under disgrace. You're only staring at Serena's hand resting on your knee. You don't even know what you're doing, except looking distanced, as always. Can you imagine what your face must look like? Is it red? Edgy? Fleeing? You remember the thick purple rings permanent underneath of your eyes. Wanting to know more, probably in order to better support you, Serena gets closer to you on the sofa. To your surprise, she places her other hand against your back, between your shoulder blades, and caresses you in circular motion, as if a little heat transfer could revive your chain of thoughts. It does seem to work, you indeed relax, you even feel the tension in your neck fade. Aided by Serena's warmth, you find the strength to speak.

"Normal? Serena, how normal can my situation be... I feel so ashamed," incapable of ending your sentence, you slip your fingers through your hair to ruffle them a bit. Perhaps this movement will succeed in clarifying your thoughts, organize your confession. Except that Serena is faster than you. She speaks, sensing an opening.

"Nothing to be ashamed of, my darling. Do not torture yourself with this," she acknowledges, removing her hand from your knee to have a sip of wine. Her hand against your back stays in place while she swallows all the content of her glass of wine before putting it back, empty, on the table.

"I do. The consequences are serious, I'm becoming afraid of myself, I'm losing my willpower, I'm becoming dependent of my impulses." Finally, your words are more coherent, more personal. You find a bit of your courage to finally look into Serena's eyes, offering a troubled expression.

"I understand," she answers with a deep, sympathetic look.

"Have you ever suffered from it?" Your question slips out of your mouth without being able to hold it back.

"Of course," her answer is raw with honesty, without embarrassment. In confessing this, Serena's hand resumes its circular motion against your shoulder blades. _Everything is normal_ , she tries to send you as a message.

"How did you manage?" The tension in your neck is back, you are afraid to move, perched on the lips of Serena, totally captivated. Your eyes move from left to right, admiring the scrupulousness portrayed on her rosy cheeks.

"By going into action, by simply responding to these impulses," her answer is meant to be logical and modest. Indeed, it seems simple when you're Serena Campbell, it's easy to have willing partners at your feet, with this unwavering self-confidence and ease with seduction. Not to mention her enticing figure…

"Of course, who can resist the beautiful Serena Campbell?" Your rhetorical question is pronounced with kindness; however, you know you're hiding in there a certain dark emotion, almost aggressively envious. One of the main reasons you've accepted to confide in Serena is precisely this ease with sexuality she wears as a second skin. You are desirous of her open-mindedness.

"It's nice of you to say that, but I meant to say to go solo, as often as possible," she retorts with a satisfied little smile. Serena removes the hand that warms your back and puts her clasped hands against her lap, not ceasing to look at you with amusement. She takes much more pleasure in this conversation than you'd imagined.

All of this attention is making the inside of your head boil. On the surface, you have the impression that your cheeks ignite and you fear that the slightest movement might trigger a fire. You try not to imagine Serena in a masturbation session. You tighten your thighs to dispel the specter of the excitement about to surprise you. Concentrate on the present, on the comfort of your living room with your dear friend who is watching you with affection. You can trust her.

"My problem is precisely there... I accumulate all this energy and I waste it with pitiful and unsatisfying orgasms. I always need more. I am afraid of becoming a perverse," at the close of the flow of your revelation, you take a deep breath, since you've articulated all this without properly breathing.

Serena laughs, this adorably naughty laugh, which highlights her cheekbones. Should you be offended or intrigued? As soon as you discern the thrilled sparks in her eyes, you understand that there is no offense. On the contrary, with the mischievous smile drawn on the corners of her mouth, you know that Serena is about to admit something rather intriguing.

"You want to talk about perversion? Once, after endless hours of work, I experienced the same frustration that you describe. An exasperation. I was so frustrated and flushed, I couldn't continue working without, you know ... So, I ran to the restrooms and locked the main door, locked myself in the first cabin and did not leave without being completely satisfied."

Serena seems very satisfied with your stunned look, mouth blissful.

"You did that? Dr. Campbell, I'm shocked of your behavior," you pretend to be upset when in fact you're on the verge of bursting into laughter. The idea that the consultant is fleeing to be alone in the public restrooms in the hospital to get off is something you will never forget.

"You bet I did! The best decision I made, then I was able to finish my day with greater efficiency without traumatizing anyone."

No longer able to hold back, you laugh loudly, with your shoulders, you let out this well-known honking sound and its contagion operates on Serena, laughing more beautifully.

Something remarkable is happening. A fog of lightness, like a protection of transparency, similar to a beneficent enchantment, hovers around you, incites to a pleasant proximity, a relaxation easily achievable. The strong roots of your friendship sink even deeper into the ground of your relationship. You feel calmer.

Serena wipes her eyes with the edge of her hands, calming her laughter. She is majestically resplendent, short on breath and somewhat tipsy from the wine.

"To say I dreaded the moment when I had to bring up the topic of my sexual frustration," you let out with a deep relief, amused by your friend.

"We're just getting started. Now, what we need before continuing this conversation is to open the bottle I brought over." In a leap, your friend goes to the lobby to retrieve the wine from her bag.

"This whole situation makes me thirsty!" She mentions from a distance.

You hear her rummaging in her things, and you sneer when you see her frolicking all the way to the living room, resolutely displaying her trophy.

Standing in front of the couch, she hands you a bottle, just few inches from your face. By reflex, you move back to better distinguish what Serena shows you. You might need a pair of glasses. Shiraz, of course.

"May you open this bottle I kept for emergencies, Big Macho Army Medic? You need to relax more," a naughty excitement fills her face.

"Haven't we drank our fill?" Skeptical, you wonder if a third bottle for two people is really reasonable.

"Come on, we're settled here quietly at your place, it's not like you're driving," she replies, squirming around, like a kid who's craving a treat.

"Unlike you," you tease by pretending to reprimand her. You get up holding the bottle of wine, but Serena does not move. You are facing each other in the center of your living room, your bodies so close. Without your shoes, you realize Serena is a little shorter than you. Why do you keep having the impression that she is taller, but also greater, more imposing, superior to you?

"Oh, you know that nothing prevents me from calling a taxi, or I can adopt this couch, comfortable to my liking," she persuades you with her melodious voice.

Demonstrating a look both dubious and confident, you agree to go to the kitchen and open the bottle given as a gift by Serena while she takes her place on the couch, in the warmth of the living room. She lies down with her whole body and rest her head on her folded arms, hassle-free. You remove the dishes of your dinner from the coffee table to carry them in the kitchen.

Compared to the cozy little cocoon of the living room, the atmosphere in the kitchen is taciturn. The dishes are placed in the sink. It's only now that your notice how dizzy you're feeling. It is the accumulation of all your concerns and the turn of events that are making your head spin? Not wanting any more alcohol in your system, you won't drink from this third bottle, but you unclog it to please Serena. You hear her moan of anticipation at the sound. It makes you smile fondly.

You overhear her cheerful voice calling you from the living room.

"How often do you masturbate?"

The bottle is almost dropped to the ground. If you'd be drinking, you'd inelegantly do a spit-take. Taken aback, you need to close your eyes to fully assimilate the forthright question instigated by your friend. If Serena finds the subject familiar and inoffensive, you must be able to return the favor. Halted by her singular question, it's difficult to reply with ease, but it's out of the question to turn back. Finally, despite your trembling hands, you rejoin Serena in the living room. You smile when you see that she is still fully lying down on the couch.

"It varies between no episode to several episodes a day," you account, trying hard to be comfortable with the subject. You try not to wince or quiver.

Serena has already positioned the cups of wine so it's easier for you to replenish them. Somehow, you are intrigued by the sound of the reddish liquid filling the glasses. Serena is, too, you notice, as she straightens up quickly at the sight of the wine. 

"Once again, quite normal. You see, that's the beauty with sexuality. No matter how many times a day, the answer is always normal, sexuality being so fluid. As long as it does not prevent you from functioning." The words tumble out from Serena's mouth before she brings the duly filled glass to her lips. She hums her joy.

You realize that you are still standing in front of her, bottle in hand, with a healthy relaxation on your figure. You like to watch Serena, it is a gift to witness her in this state of coziness. Staring much longer seems improper, which leads you to set the bottle on the coffee table and you take your place at her side.

"The problem is...," you're coughing lightly, to clear a throat that's rather cautious than irritated, "my orgasms are not, um, satisfying. More often than not, I need to achieve several tries to make that painful need disappear, and, um ... well, I often end up crying. Desire is crucial but nothing satisfies me." Another difficult sentence that flows smoothly, welcomed with tenderness by your understanding friend. You are proud of yourself, and grateful to Serena.

"I'm sorry to hear it, Bernie. I guess it reinforces your frustration?" Her tone is more posed, less teasing, but just as unprejudiced.

"Yes."

"Do you think that by masturbating more, it will disappear?" She probes delicately, taking another sip. Once again, you are captivated by the red liquid flowing between Serena's lips.

"I don't know."

You must speak, you can't loiter. Attentive, Serena does active listening. This time, she isn't offering a list of suggestions.

You must dive into the pitfalls of your dissatisfaction. Serena is receptive, cheerful, reassured and reassuring, but above all, patient. All the best arrangements are in place to encourage you to continue. You can trust Serena.

"I try not to give in to my impulses. I try not to masturbate, to avoid being more frustrated. I try to create my own adrenaline, to devote myself to work. I do runs in the morning, but this ... emptiness, that lonely and icy abyss that grows up in me, it never disappears. Sometimes I'm afraid of falling, capsizing, shattering in the depths of a void."

The playfulness usually present in Serena's eyes is replaced by strong sympathy. Her hand navigates towards your knee, as if to support you in the steps of your confession.

"I feel undesirable and pathetic," you confide, astonished by your specific telling. Being suddenly thirsty, you grab your drink and swallow a big sip. It is only when putting it down that you notice Serena's stare.

"Oh, believe me Bernie, if there's something you're not, it's pathetic and undesirable." Her voice purrs, sweet and forthright. The palm of her hand squeezes your knee more firmly.

This emptiness in you reappears, it grows, grows, grows, triggering a heat wave that runs through your body, spreading to your ears that begin to buzz. You can't figure out how to restrain your body from waving subtly under the force of the surge that furrows your being. Self-conscious, you're starting to blush.

"You're too nice ... you do not have to say that." You bring your glass to your lips, forgetting that you didn't want any more alcohol tonight. The sip refreshes your palate, your ideas, your body.

"Have I ever lied to you? Bernie, you're an attractive woman, with a seductive body and a bewitching intellect," as usual, her eyebrow is arched, to accentuate her point. This gesture makes you blush even more, you hasten to set down your glass before dropping it.

Silence, except that your imagination makes you hear purrs emitted by your colleague.

"Isn't there an old flame you can ring up? An old partner with whom you can reconnect, for a one-night stand?" Her hands wave in the air between you, as if their gestures could demonstrate what is implied.

"Ah, I'm not very experienced. Being in the army and all. There was only Alex. That's precisely the problem." It feels strange, it's been a long time since you said her name, the name of your previous lover.

"What do you mean?"

"Since our adventure, which ended abruptly, we didn't maintain the lines of communication. I haven't met any woman since my first lesbian experience." This word, too, hasn't been pronounced for a long time.

Another phrase you dreaded that you've managed to say fluidly. How difficult it is to trust yourself, in your seduction abilities, when your lack of experience is so blatant, so pitiful, so painful. In spite of your professional baggage, your surgical prowess, your instant resourcefulness, your ability to adapt, you remain incapable of living an emancipated sexuality.

"You mean you miss being with women, it's this lack that haunts you?" she questions with discernment, a glimmer of understanding that lights up in her eyes.

You swore that Serena will never cry again, except you haven't sworn anything about yourself. Unsolicited sobs don't wait for your permission before setting in. You are trying to repress this rising of tears bearing the name of shame. You take a deep breath and you manage to rebuff them. You quickly look away so that Serena does not notice your watery eyes.

Serena is a smart woman, you can't fool her. She notices that the subject remains very sensitive to you, so she tries to release the tension by borrowing a tone of lightness, as she does with brio and delicacy.

"So, we need to find you someone new! It must not be difficult. Women must fall at your feet. What about this young barista at the hospital -"

Without expecting it, you interrupt Serena, wanting to censure the splendid hopes behind her assumptions.

"Serena, I can't go up to a woman and ask if we can shag."

"Why not?" Serena's voice deepens, lowers. Her eyes roam your timid aspect.

"I wouldn't know how to do it, I'm scared to pounce, to be clumsy. I'm afraid of disappointing," you hear the echo of your voice in the pronunciation of these difficult words.

"Sex is supposed to be fun and not complicated at all. You're an attractive and clever woman, you don't have to worry about it. A little advice, do not take yourself so seriously. Maybe your future partner will be as clumsy and needy as you, and you're both going to laugh about it, while having fun."

This heaviness in your posture, hoarding on your shoulders and crushing all the glimmers of liberation, is swept away like pollen in the spring by the generous breath of Serena who tells you exactly what you profoundly need to hear.

"You think?" if your voice trembles, you do not notice it, for all that matters are the smile and reassurance of your confidante.

"Absolutely, and maybe you'll surprise yourself and be able to shag all night, right on your first encounter!" She offers you an harmless nudge in the ribs with her elbow.

With the light tremors in your hands, you slip a curl of hair back behind your ear, unconsciously, in order to hear more of the suggestive and daring ideas of your friend. While smiling shyly, you stare at the floor, ready to hear everything that Serena wants to share with you.

"You think about it often, don't you? Sleeping with a woman?"

That, on the other hand, you were not ready. Your heart is pumping so hard in your chest, you're afraid it'll smash your rib-cage. Your ears are buzzing again, creating a storm in your head. The absence of your response reveals, in itself, what you do not state.

"Bernie, is this why you kissed me, the other night, in our office?" she undertakes with assurance.

"No! No, of course not ... I did not have that in mind when ... when I, um, kissed you." Quickly, you are eager to look at Serena, really look at her, because you want to be sure she truly sees you, too. You want to be convinced she perceives the truth, the genuineness. It was not about sexual frustration, on the contrary, it was more about shared sadness.

"So why did you do it? Why did you kiss me?"

"Because you were so hurt, we were so tired ... I could not stand your suffering. You looked so downcast, so diminished by the recent events, besides I wasn't really thinking," under the emotion, you swiftly grasp Serena's hands to hold them firmly in yours, in reassuring kindness.

"I can't bare the idea to see you agonise like that, Serena... never again." Is it reasonable to swear you'll protect her, you'll care for her, without the pretext of a proper motive other than friendship? Could this promise rather make her flee, worried by your excessive loyalty?

"Me neither, Bernie. I don't want to see you suffer anymore than you have suffered lately. It has to stop."

Now that the words have been spoken, that your frustration has been recognized, it is true that everything seems rather trifling, especially compared to the medical dramas you encounter daily. Putting facts into perspective has always been a formula with which you've worked, yet emotional exhaustion did not give you the ability to recognize it.

"It's better now. I don't know how to thank you for giving me this opportunity to ... to unburden myself of that shame I was carrying, which was turning me into a recluse," you expel a low complaint. "Thank you, Serena, so much." You smile with all your teeth.

"It's nothing, Bernie, you'll see, it'll work out."

With synchronicity, you let go of your hands and fall into a tight hug. You share this embrace reserved for sincere friends, the one where the bodies are pressed against each other, lovingly pulling the other person towards you, in full openness. Your hair tickles each other's eyelids and cheeks.

You have forgotten how good Serena feels and smells. A mix of wildflowers, creek water and a little something unique to herself. Distracted by the solicitation of your senses, you melt in her arms, relaxed and genuinely happy.

Serena puts an end to the hug, grabs her glass and offers you a toast inspired by this evening.

"Let's drink to our chemistry and to the existence of a healthy sex life, let's consider ourselves lucky it does not disappear in our fifties!" she announces, holding out your glass. You take it from her warm fingers.

You toast and quickly sip. The tinkling of your glasses echoes in the air, filling the space suddenly becoming silent. You're still able to feel Serena's short locks slide down your cheek. Something different settles in the atmosphere, as if the night dispenses chances to seize. You can not identify what's going on, but it's Serena, with her exemplary bluntness, who accepts the message strained by the universe to initiate a different conversation.

"Do you find me attractive?" she asks, running her finger on the edge of her glass.

"Obviously." Never have you answered such an obvious question so quickly. Intoxicated by the alcohol and the heat of the moment, you do not quite realize that this is an intimate confession that you've kept for yourself, until now.

"Is that why you were avoiding me, that you were moving away from me?"

"Not at all, I was avoiding you because I was ashamed of what was going on with my body and in my mind. I was afraid it would display, I was afraid to explode."

"I'm telling you Bernie, you have no reason to run away."

You nod, propelled by your promise to look after Serena, to protect her, to trust her.

"Are you comfortable with me?"

"Always."

"All the better."

"Unless, you find me pathetic, of course."

"Nonsense, you are the most fantastic, fearless person I know." With tenderness, your friend cradles you with generous words. She brings her drink close to her lips, before she adding a comment. "You just need to get laid."

Pretending to be insulted, you stick your tongue out. Serena's shoulder wave under her smirk and she does not refrain from taking another sip, emptying her wine. You imitate her, however, this drop is too much. Your head is spinning. Serena's too, probably. You notice how late- or early - it is. The wee hours of the morning oblige a cruel reminder of your indisputable tiredness. It would be wiser to call it a night. Serena seems to read your mind.

"I'm sorry, I absolutely have to go to bed. In payback for the stress you caused me, I claim your bed. There is no way I'm sleeping on this sofa now." She warns with humor and a hint of determination.

"I am not giving up the bed without a fight, we're going to arm wrestle over this." Obviously, you will let your guest win, but you don't tell her that, you play along. You congratulate yourself for changing the sheets of your bed during your cleaning session from this afternoon.

"No problem, you'll see how unbeatable I can be when I set my mind to something, even against a soldier."

Determined to give the best of herself, despite exhaustion and alcohol, Serena kneels in front of the coffee table, inviting you to follow her to the ground. She puts down her elbow, her arm raised, ready to receive your hand, her eyes defiant and amused. Adorable Serena, confident of triumphing.

Her palm is incredibly comfortable, a little rough (hands of surgeons) but particularly enveloping. In the center of your joined hands, you imagine a core of happiness and heat, created solely by your connexion.  You try to count the number of times you touched her hands, in such a period of time, before you remember that there is a challenge going on over this coffee table.

"Ready?"

"Go!"

You're deeply hypnotized by Serena's motivation to win, written her face. Her grimaces are lovable. She is clearly and delightfully intoxicated by alcohol and by competitiveness. Her balance and posture are not as accurate as she would like. She staggers a little, she must blink to focus. You know that your friend is strong, her grip is good, but it is clear that you'd beat her in just a few seconds. There wasn't any question that you'd refuse her the bed.

Without further ado, you let her win with a little impediment, and her victory shout is worth all the gold in the world. Proud and breathless, she raises her arms in the air, triumphant.

"Who would have thought?" You feign pain by massaging your sore wrist.

"I warned you." Her self-sufficient state makes you smile.

You get up, proud of your trickering, and you help Serena get back on her feet.

"Now, show me where the bathroom is, because my bladder reminds me of the amount of glasses I have drunk."

Having shown her where the basic necessities of the bathroom are, you return to the living room to pick up the few remaining dishes. In your room, you recover a warm blanket and a pillow, taking a last look at the room to make sure it is presentable and ready to welcome your guest. How foreign this feeling is, to welcome a friend over night, in your bed, of all places. This accentuates your duty of protection, your desire for well-being, your determination to take care.

Penetrating into the room, Serena involuntarily interrupts the thread of your thoughts. You did not notice how strongly you hold the blanket and the pillow against your stomach. You relax at the sight of your friend.

"Thank you for lending me your room, but if you prefer to sleep in here too...," she points to the bed. Quickly, she adds "since you tend to have a sore back."

"Oh, I'm fine, I often fell asleep on the couch while watching the tele. Don't worry, the bed is yours."

Yawning inelegantly, Serena sits on the edge of the bed (the side where you sleep) and grunts of satisfaction while she lets herself lie down. You look away at the sight of this, tightly pressing the pillow against you. Wise it is, not sharing the bed, mainly because of the nature of previous discussions.

"If you want a change of clothes, you can look in the drawer here for tops or leggings."

Too late, you notice, because Serena is just mumbling over you, already halfway between being asleep and awake. It would be inappropriate to place the blanket over her tired body, to kiss her cheek, to stroke her hair. You mustn't mix your daydreams with the pleasant reality of this circumstance.

"Good night," you whisper quietly. Your heart is enormous, fueled by a benevolent emotion. For the first time in too long, you do not feel anxious. You reiterate the fact that Serena is like a cloud of warm rain on the shriveled desert of your landscape.

Not wanting to drop the blanket and pillow you're holding strongly against your front, you lean slightly towards the night table to turn off the light. The door remains open behind you. In the hallway, in case Serena needs to get up during the night, you leave a night light on to show the way.

The living room still bears the memory of Serena's presence. The brilliance of her laugh, the depth of her gaze, the sincerity of her support. A little wine stain on the floor, some silver hair on the fabric of the couch. You manage to inhale a hint of her pheromone, but maybe that's just your remembrance. You extinguish the fireplace and close the lights. By removing your pants, you decide to keep your underwear and shirt while undoing your bra. Your movements make you dizzy. In a hurry, you lie down on the couch, placing your pillow and pulling the blanket over you, finally ready for sleep.

Your thoughts are swirling in your head. By heart, you're able to see Serena's well-defined understanding smile, her cheeks rosy from the wine. You can still hear the incredulity of her confessions, you enjoy the melody of her giggles.

Obviously, insomnia is present. Besides the alcohol that stimulates you, the accumulation of all these confessions and pleasant wonders of the evening are creating dizziness. In addition, the rhythmic and habitual throbbing are resurfacing between your legs. It becomes painful, as it always does. The fact that Serena is currently lying in your bed is a very entertaining notion. You can visualize the contractions of your clitoris requiring your touch. You can't get off here in the living room, while Serena sleeps in your bed.

You decide to get up and go quietly to the bathroom. In the corridor, you are grateful for the night light, even if you know the distances and the location of your surroundings, because your head is dizzier than you thought.

In the bathroom, you close the door behind you, without opening the lights. Protected by the darkness and confinement of the small room, you lean against the counter and slide your hand over your soaked underwear. You apply the pressure of two fingers directly against your clitoris and in a few seconds, you reach an orgasm too fast and too short. Displeased, you groan with discontent and resume your rough circular friction. You don't even bother to be methodical, impatient to be done with it. You rub from left to right, up and down. Nothing, nothing happens, except muscle pain, annoying lubrication and a tender clitoris. A change of position could simplify your movements. You lift a leg so that your foot is supported against the edge of the bath. Despite the darkness, you close your eyes to better focus and you resume the rubs against your bundle of nerve. The pressure is almost painful, you feel unpleasant chills, you can not refuel the pleasure in your anguish, you even try to visualize anonymous female bodies. You moan weakly when, suddenly, a spark appears, you feel something. A gentle heat, again, again... and even before you can celebrate the reappearance of yearning, your orgasm occurs before disappearing as quickly. All the ingredients are there, except the pleasure.

You give up, you let your hand fall at your sides. Reverberating against the walls, your whines are omnipresent. Your complaints are noises of exhaustion and desperation. It's not your lower abdomen throbbing from pleasure, it's your face cringing from despair. Your head is spinning. Your sobs are quiet, at least that's what you believe it, until your name is called.

"Bernie?"

Alarmed, you open your eyes and look towards the bathroom door. The small nightlight in the corridor cuts the shadow of Serena's feet, standing in front of the door, a few steps from your position.

"Is everything fine?" her voice is hesitant, knowing full well that she interrupts an intimate moment.

Speedily, you open the tap to wash your hands. Reassured by the sound of the water, you offer a response through the door, hoping that your trembling voice is not distinguishable under the stream of water.

"Yes." You soap longer than necessary, you are not seeing very well because the room is still plunged into darkness. Nervous, you accidentally drop the tooth brush recipient. You mutter while picking it up.

"May I come in?"

"Just one moment...," just as you make sure your clothes are positioned correctly, you realize with horror that your pants are remained in the living room. Nervous, you don't think about wiping your soapy hands, nor wipe away the tears on your cheeks. You aren't thinking clearly. You have to face your friend.

When you open the door, your body is still in the shadows, you'd like to remain hidden there, far from prying eyes. However, the portrait unveiled in front of you is so memorable that you don't even think about hiding anymore.

Serena is only wearing her slim camisole, the one always hidden under her blouse, without a bra this time. You suppose she isn't wearing pants, but you're too affected by her beauty to pay attention. Her hair is slightly disheveled, probably due to her sleeping position on the pillow. She is so agonizingly stunning, a natural and unpretentious beauty, so sublime that you forget to wipe off the tears still running down your cheeks.

"Kiss me," her voice is imperative and daring, even quivering.

Without asking question, without thinking, as if it were the most natural gesture in the world, you bow your head and you taste for a second time the moist lips of your friend. Serena embraces you with her all her warmth, her arms still lukewarm. Passive, you let yourself be kissed by this magnificent being.

In the barely lit hallway of your apartment, in the heart of the night, you're being passionately kissed by Serena. Her mouth bears the taste of bitter wine and delectable sugar. Her tongue begs yours, so naturally you open your mouth. You think you might combust.

She presses her soft figure against yours. It's been so long since you've held a woman so firmly in your arms, and never a woman you so ardently desire. You let yourself go, you allow yourself to be guided. Her dexterous and generous hands caress your back, slide along the fabric that sets the limit of nakedness before sliding under the edge of your shirt, brushing your skin. The shivers running through your body are making you tremble. Her touch is prodigious, magical. You are stunned, and the famous high-pitch sound that pierces your eardrums reappears, ardent and dangerous.

All your senses are solicited, and soon you let out randy sobs against the mouth of your friend who devours them one by one. Your hands, still wet and smelling of soap, instinctively set against Serena's hips, forgetting the almost bare appearance of her body. The touch of your fingers against the softness of her skin surprises you, urging you to quiver, to whimper. When a flush of heat crosses your being, you break the contact of your mouths to catch your breath, except that Serena refuses it, she kisses you again, decisively, not letting you go. It feels like a rebirth, being smooched and devoured and care for. She gradually breaks your embrace to seize those hands chastely holding her hips and she decides she wants them elsewhere. With obvious shivers, she places your hands against her breasts. Without truly realizing it, your throat produces a guttural sound, close to a groan or a beg. Guided by the hands of Serena, you begin to stroke and caress the heaviness of her breasts. Her hands are on yours, and yours are fondling her breasts rhythmically. It feels so good. At the center of your palms, you can sense her nipples harden. Your moans are multiplying, like a melody punctuated by your faltering breathing. Everything is sensations, centralized in this small space, where a heat envelops you. As if to encourage your groans, Serena nibbles at your lower lip, slips her tongue inside your mouth, and she tightens her hold on your hands toying with her breasts, as saying _go ahead_ , _take them_ , _feel me._ You're wet, indecently wet, and your clit contracts with a rhythm that you recognize too well.

Is it a dream? Will you die of pleasure? Will you collapse to the ground? Serena must sense you falter, because she pushes you gently towards to the wall in order to guarantee a better support. Serena releases your hands, urging you to continue your fondling with her breasts. Taking advantage of this new, safer position, Serena grabs a hold of your thighs before slipping her own, scorching, against your soaked crotch. In contact with your drenched underwear, it's Serena's turn to moan at the discovery. Serena adds pressure, a circular motion, and you're feeling yourself becoming wetter, if that’s possible.

It becomes too much. You want to see everything, to feel everything, to understand everything. But you aren't thinking, only feeling. You're on the verge of exploding. That's it, you're on the precipice! Your hips undulate at the pace determined by Serena, you aren't controlling anything, not even your successive groans, especially not the hands of Serena squeezing your thighs with a frenetic pace, clumsily but effectively.

"Oh, Bernie," she hums breathlessly, close to your ear, so close that everything suggests she's in you, that she's part of you, absolutely controlling every inch of your being.

Your eyes can only glimpse sparks of explosions and that's it, overwhelming shudders run through your sex. You convulse around Serena's thigh, lulled by her arms, guided by her own moans. A cry of fulfillment comes out of your throat, making the intensity of your orgasm travel outward. Your head collapses against Serena's shoulder, you breathe heavily against her sternum, between your hands yet softly caressing her breasts. Rarely have you been so short of breath, a mixture of delight, uneasiness and fatigue.

"Do you feel better?" Serena is panting and her smile is worth all the gold in the world. She wraps her trembling hands around your neck and the underside of your jaw, so it's easier for her to look at your face. You are grateful because it helps you to concentrate, to regain consciousness. Her spasmodic breathing tickles the bangs close to your eyebrows. Between the two of you, scents of wine, aromas of wetness, just a little more and it smells like the rain, so earthy and sparkling since your bodies are shining with perspiration.

"Oh…, oh ...," not being a great communicator, it is currently out of your league to answer verbally. You swallow to moisten your dry throat and you let out another moan, profound and demonstrative.

"A little better than alone or with toys?" she tries as an ice breaker, to smoother the awkwardness of this curious position you're in, improvised in the heart of the night, to overcome the despair that was troubling you.

"I ... I ... yes," flushed, you hide your face again in the crook of her neck. She rubs your damp hair, whirling a lock around a finger.

"I'm glad. Now, come on, we're too old to be standing against a wall."

Following her statement, you accurately grasp where you are, how you are positioned, semi-nude and panting.

"Let's go to your room, let's have some sleep," she offers, removing her thigh from your core and replacing her shirt, crumpled by your administrations. In spite of your muddled vision and tired state, you perceive her teasing smile.

Embarrassed, you'd like to freshen up first, but your satiated body is divinely exhausted and fortunately dumbfounded. You aren't in a state to make any decisions, you simply obey to all Serena has to offer.

"We'll shower tomorrow morning," she reassures you, guessing the thread of your thoughts. "Let's go to bed."

Taking your hand, she guides you to your bedroom. Without the night light, it is even darker than in the corridor. This apartment may belong to you, it seems that Serena owns it as she navigates with ease in the dark. Between exhaustion, imagination and reality, you let yourself be guided by the perfect being in front of you, half-naked, gleaming and generous, who corresponds very much to the Serena of your fantasies. Except that this is reality. Walking towards the bed, you think you have inadvertently walked on her clothes lying on the floor. This acts as an instant reminder of your nakedness. Her hand leaves yours for an instant. You hear the sheets wrinkle as Serena slips under the covers. Her hand finds your wrist, and Serena tugs at it slightly, inviting you to bed. Halfway between slumber and daydreaming, you slide under your own blankets. Everywhere is the smell of Serena. She invites you with opened arms, welcoming your head pressed against her shoulder. Creating a core of cordiality, inelegantly but comfortably entwined, you both quickly fall asleep to the rhythm of your satisfied breaths.


	3. États d'âmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to add a third chapter before the final one because the atmosphere of the last chapter will be considerably different ;-) 
> 
> I'd like to thank my friend Lynn for her support and inspiration.

In this fond and legendary night, embraced in the warm darkness of the surroundings, you can't fall asleep even if you're exhausted. Serena is here with you, in your bed. A delectable tiredness keeps you from moving your body, but nonetheless, you would never dare to move because of your fear of unintentionally wakening your friend. You falter between the confusion of being conscious and the euphoria of dreams. Even in your most daring fantasies, you never ventured to imagine Serena as adventurous and affectionate. You would like to question her motives, but for the moment, you can't bother to think, only enjoy to feel.

The vicious circle still haunts you, but what you truly sense is the twirling of your mind baffled by the utopian presence of Serena, semi-nude and larger than life, wrapped under your blankets. They smell typically _her_ , perfumed by her pheromone. Serena is huddled next to you, your arms and legs touching. She seems peacefully asleep, you notice the regularity of her breathing. As if Serena was the character of a dream too often revisited, she seems unattainable. You don't know if you can gently caress her face or lend a mild kiss on her forehead. Would it exceed the limits, if limits there are? You're satisfied just watching her fondly. You have no certainty about the appellation of this union, of this sexual intimacy. You do not understand what happened, and you don't mind not understanding, simply because you're happy. A happy chaos. The turn of events is surreal, deliciously and kindly surreal. You agree to be a spectator, to follow the generously peculiar ideas of your friend. As your thoughts calm down, you let yourself be lulled by the tender situation. Slowly, slumber approaches, until all of a sudden, in the silence of the night, Serena emits a fart of an astonishing sonority. Under the effect of surprise, you have an uncontrollable urge of laugh. But of course, it's out of the question for you to laugh - your inimitable honk will startle your guest. You can't hold back giggles and by the force of your amusement, your shoulders stagger under the restraint of your laughter, and you must even carry your hand to your mouth to contain your snicker. What's more domestic than a nocturnal fart? Serena can never be worshiped on a pedestal, because she is real and true, in the flesh - of an incredible softness - and strong bones.

Serena is alive and well materialized. She is not a fantasy. Gradually, you are overwhelmed with a feeling of well-being and relaxation. And thanks to Serena, you are well anchored in the present, in the passing seconds. You feel free, guided by new emotions, positive and comforting. You want to externalize this unforeseen joy of life that fills your being. Formerly so distant, like a glittering star in the firmament, a small piece of happiness finally tickles you. No longer troubled by an uneasiness that tires your soul and your sex, you doze off without realizing it, and finally, with a beam, you join Serena in her sleep.

**

From a distance, a delicious smell of caffeine stimulates your nostrils. You recognize that the arrival of the morning. By the faint light of the sun that passes through your eyelids, you know it's still early. You open your eyes and you discover a steaming mug placed on your bedside table. Gradually, the memories of the night are back in place in your awareness. Serena is the one who placed this cup. Serena is the one having spent the night in your bed. Serena is the one who is currently in the shower, you can discern out the shower running and you hear Serena's movements under the water.

You are sincerely moved by the fact that Serena is comfortable enough in your home, to the point of using the kitchen and the bathroom. She even has the kindness to prepare you a coffee. You're constantly offering each other coffees at work, she knows exactly how you prepare yours. Fighting the sleep out of your eyes, you sit up in your bed, always in a sitting position, and you put your hair behind your ears before taking with both hands the hot mug. Bringing the liquid to your mouth, you feel your body wake up instantly. You do not know how long you really stay positioned like this, sitting on your bed, your lower body still under the blankets, holding your cup and just watching your surroundings, relaxing, savoring. Without questioning. You do not want to question. You want to be a spectator, in order to better discern Serena's state of mind and to be a better provider of what she seeks. You know you'll agree about what she has decided for both of you. You trust her and you'll follow her anywhere.

You hardly notice the water has stopped flowing.

And then, an apparition, a pure and comforting light crosses the corridor, which is Serena freshly showered, wearing only your bath towel. You adore how her short hair is tousled, still damp. You like the footprint of her feet on your floor. In the door frame, she waves to you with one hand, holding her bath towel closely to her chest with the other hand. For a second, you wonder if she is waiting for permission to enter your bedroom.

"Good morning," you say, relaxed and contented, holding your mug. Your greeting seems to have the desired effect, as she happily enters the room and heads to the chair at the corner of the room.

"Good morning to you too. Ah, the shower did some good! But we have to talk about the lack of body products available, as I haven't found your hair conditioner?" she remarks. She is searching the pile of mixed apparels for clothes that belong to her.

"I, um, I don't have any...," you admit while hiding behind a sip of your coffee.

"That would explain your everyday tousled hair. I always thought you were not combing your hair, but to my relief, I did find a hairbrush." Serena's voice does not blame you, the sound is more like a triumph, like a detective who celebrates her discovery. Serena does not mean to criticize, simply tease.

You force a louder laugh than normal. _Touché_. Your hair reputation has always been a source of gags, and you assume it. Still, you don't see the point of paying special attention to your hair if you spend the majority of your time covering them with surgical headbands or tying it in a ponytail.

Having found her clothes, Serena sits on the chair at the edge of the window. Her silhouette is against the light, you can perfectly make out her outline. Your eyes hurt by such beauty and by the force of the blinding sun. And thankfully, because Serena removes the towel and is completely naked in the morning light. Quickly, you hide behind your mug, immediately taking another sip of coffee.

You moan. Because of the coffee, of course.

"How do you make my own coffee seem more delicious than usual?"

"The context, perhaps?" she mentions with expectation, while putting on her panties, one leg at a time. Serena offers you a smile, a little tired, but so soft. She sets the wet towel on the armrest of the chair.

Your heart starts pumping in your ears again and it creates a growl that censures the heat of the drink in your mouth and the warmth of domesticity in your chest. You try to concentrate on how Serena embodies the welcoming cloud of warm rain on the shriveled desert of your landscape.  

"Did you sleep well?" she asks, standing up to put on her trousers a little awkwardly.

You haven't even thought about the quality of your sleep. You do not even know how long you slept. You only know that you feel good. Less sore, less tense. Intrigued, stimulated, troubled.

"Yes," your answer is frank and calm.

"I'm happy," she says, pulling up her zipper and buttoning the edge of her pants.

"And what about you?"

There are a million things you would like to ask her. You don't want her to crumble under the weight of all your interrogations when everything is still so fresh, so raw, so peaceful.

"Oh, I've slept like a baby, your bed is really comfortable, I'd be sleeping again if I didn't have to head home to grab some things before going to work."

She picks up her blouse on the floor and seems to be looking for something else, scanning the floor from left to right, her naked breasts evermore troubling.

"Would you like a coffee or eat something before leaving?"

You can not let her go without offering a breakfast. You remember to be chivalrous.

"I already had coffee before my shower. Unless you have fresh pastries, I'll pass. Oh, would you pass me my bra?" Serena vaguely points to the other side of the bed.

You set your mug on the bedside table and stretch out on your stomach towards the other side of the bed, touching the floor with your hand. Having caught her bra with your fingertips, you grab the item and, still on your stomach, you throw it over your shoulder. She catches it, amused and starts putting it on. You look away, which is absurd, because a few hours ago, her breasts were under your palms. You resume your sitting position and you feel your cheeks borrow the shades of roses.

"How's your head?" you ask her, savoring another sip of coffee as she tries to remove the bad folds in her blouse.

"My head is spinning a bit, nothing I'm not used to after sharing a few glasses." She winks at you, "How's your body? By your snoring, I would say you were relaxed."

Oh, how tempting it is to speak about her loud fart, but you drop it. You do not want to kill the moment and embarrass her, even if you know very well that deep down it'll make her laugh and then she'll blame your cooking. You want to keep the serenity of this particular morning.

"I do feel relaxed ... I feel good, I do not know how to thank you."

Serena moves quickly, making sure she has all her clothes back on, her blouse unbuttoned.

"Darling, you don't have to thank me. Oh, before I forget, I want to talk to you about a patient when you arrive at the hospital this afternoon. Priority case, stabilized but he may have a very complex congenital disease."

Does your friend change the subject to avoid the embarrassment of talking about this? About what happened? Does she change the subject because she feels uncomfortable? Still, she looks very at ease. Maybe even too much, if you compare her nonverbal language to yours?

"No worries, I can come in sooner if you want, as you see, I'm not exactly busy," you say, referencing to your half-naked state, unrushed.

"Oh no need to arrive sooner than expected, come when you're ready, and there's an activity you can occupy yourself with, in the shower," she dares to suggest by offering you this naughty wink, all while buttoning her blouse.

How to avoid blushing? There is no more coffee in your cup, you can not hide behind anything to conceal your embarrassment. You feel like a teenager, and you don't seem to hate it.

No creative, silly or mischievous reply comes to mind. You're under the impression of being frozen in a painting, living in a beautiful colored canvas where you have the stature of an infinitely peaceful character. You are immobilized by all the possibilities of scenarios presented in front of you. What should you do? What do you want to do? What does Serena wish you'd do? Answer in a suggestive manner, mimic her game of innuendos? Demonstrate a gesture of affection? The army major in you resurfaces and you instinctively opt for the practical approach: simple inquiring.

"I hope you're not worrying about what happened? Can we establish a moment to talk about it?"

Serena has just finished getting dressed and straightens her body in order to face you, standing in front of the bed, looking at you as if you've said something untimely.

"Why? Are you sorry it happened?" she questions with a worried look. Her fingers play with the edge of the blanket at your feet.

"No, no ... Not at all, um, what about you?" you swiftly say. You tilt your body forward, as if to emphasize your attention and your listening.

"Of course not. You needed help, I think, and I was there to provide it to you. I enjoyed it, but if you need to talk about it, you can find a moment…"

You interrupt Serena to confess a regret, a source of discomfort that can not wait any longer.

"Serena, I find that ... how to say, that it's not fair? I mean, I have ... and you haven't..." you gesticulate more than necessary, you create shapes with your hands without really knowing what you are trying to describe, other than your annoyance of being the only one to have had an orgasm.

Serena looks up, straight into your eyes. She is gently defiant.

"You think I haven't reached orgasm?"

"Isn't it the case?" Your eyes shine from desolation.  

"Oh, don't worry, with the way you breathed down my neck, and the fumbling of your hands on my breasts, not to mention the contagious rhythm of your hips around my thigh ... It was very communicative. I accompanied you to the end."

Behind her wicked smile is hidden a distant emotion, something deep and disregarded. It nourishes something in your unconscious.

"I should've been more attentive to you ... I didn't realize everything that was happening ... I was elsewhere, you carried me away," the troubles are stronger than thoughts, and words get lost.

Unexpected tears fill your eyes. If only you've been more alert, more attentive. Your clumsiness will get the better of you. Serena must be aware of your emotion because her expression softens.

Serena sits by your side, adjacent, so close that with the morning light, you can effortlessly see her defined wrinkles, her glossy lips and the sparkles in her eyes. To your surprise, she puts a hand on each side your cheeks. Her cold palms on your warm skin manages to calm your anguish. Serena gently holds your face and you see her pupils alternating from left to right, looking into your heart.

"It's okay, Bernie. That was the idea, you see, to carry you away. Far from that frustration. You looked so desperate, and I was there. It was not about me, do not complicate something as beautiful as mere sexual needs."

Everything seems so easy when Serena declares it. You'd love to believe it, strongly. You have simple and normal sexual needs. You're not trying to convince yourself otherwise, because Serena would not approve.

You nod. Serena smiles. Without resistance, you let yourself be gently guided by your friend who is leaning her head towards yours. She sets her lips on your forehead and kisses you lengthy. You have time to imagine the shape of her smooching lips, the pressure she applies. When your friend puts an end to the kiss, you let out an almost therapeutic breath, as if your soul instantly becomes at peace, emptying your lungs of an oxygen becoming toxic from your torments. You understand that everything is fine.

Seeing how sensitive you are, Serena decides to slide her thumbs on the colored surface of your cheeks, creating a little heatwave. She is still cupping your face, she cradles you metaphorically with this tender expression. Everything is fine.

"If it reassures you to know, I've enjoyed a very, very long session in the shower. I thought you wouldn't mind." Her suggestive tone dries your mouth.

Pleasantly imprisoned under the caring palms of your friend, you smile. Your smile is bursting with reassurance. You feel your cheekbones carving in Serena's hands, and she mirrors that merciful smile.

"But now, I really have to go, if I don't want to be late to the hospital. I'll see you soon."

And her hands are deserting you, the mattress moves a little by the weight of Serena's body leaving. You immediately feel an immense absence and your body gets cold. You know she'll be gone in a few minutes.

"Of course, I'll meet you there with another coffee," you promise, repressing your emotions.

"Ah, you're too good for me."

With that, Serena waves a goodbye and disappears from your vision. You listen to the remoteness of the sound of her footsteps. You hear her putting on her shoes and picking up her belongings. You hear a distant "bye!" and the main door opens before closing behind her.

Loneliness, an excessive and revenant enemy. However, at this instant, instead of wanting to chase this loneliness away, you surprise yourself wanting to savor it. You need to savor the moment. Your entire apartment is transformed by the short - and powerful - passage of Serena between these walls. You notice pigmentation of the colors behind Serena's path. You distinguish the distance between objects, the harmony of furniture. You manage to mentally redraw the silhouette of your friend sitting on the chair, to rebuild the sound of her voice bouncing against the walls of the room. The air is less charged, more pleasant to breathe. It seems that you perceive differently the things that are familiar to you, as if they had more to offer, as if they were more promising, or perhaps it is rather a reflection of your state of mind?

You've chosen to silence frustration and invading thoughts. Nothing will take your souvenirs of Serena away. Knowing that you need to start your morning and join Serena at the hospital soon, you remove the blankets and get on your feet. Your legs are no longer painful, your weight is less heavy. Also, you sense a spring in your step. Spontaneously, you prepare to go to the bathroom to complete your morning routine, but you stop to pick up Serena's towel resting on the armrest of the chair in your room. It is still damp, and you clench it against your chest. You shudder when your fingers feel the fabric, and you bring it to your nose to smell the towel, hoping to find something that is specific to Serena. You are slightly disappointed, you only recognize the scent of your shampoo.

While walking towards the bathroom, you have the impression of floating, you think you're not touching the floor because of a lightness that transports you. You're not used to this grace, usually so weighty with worries.

A nervousness tickles you when you enter the bathroom. Gradually, you let yourself be immersed in this curious atmosphere filled with humidity. Serena was here. You know it, of course, but now you confirm it, you have no choice to be directly confronted by Serena's presence. It's not a fantasy or a delusion. You hang the towel behind the door and you contemplate.

The humidity of the shower is still suspended in the room and it makes you tremble with sentiment despite the heat. You can almost discern the dots of water floating in the atmosphere and they gather on the skin of your arms and thighs.

You spot Serena's cup of coffee left on the counter. You notice your toothbrush slightly moved. You open the first drawer where you store your hair brush and you wonder if you can recognize some silver hair among the blond. Serena was present, concretely present, and not only accompanying your daydreams. Here, Serena was getting ready to start her day. Serena showered. Serena masturbated. And to say that you were delighted Serena felt comfortable enough to use your apartment as she pleased. You remember her proposal to take a long shower before going to work.

You remove the few clothes you have left, drop them on the counter, and continue to contemplate. Naked, you are looking for Serena, you seek for her exquisiteness and her audacity. You promise not to question, only to feel, as you decide to evoke last night's session.

You turn and look at the shower. On the blue plastic curtain, a few droplets of water trickle down and your fingers follow the path of one of them. Suddenly, you are pleasantly troubled by a shudder, like a wave that strikes your whole body. The skin on the tip of your finger is ultra-sensitive, as if you had bewitched it. You use all the fingers of your hand to touch the droplets and each makes you shudder, generating jolts of electricity through your lower abdomen. Your skin is shivering all over, you sense the hair on the back of your neck bristling and your nipples hardening. You enter the bath while closing the curtains around you. Your feet rest on where Serena stood in the small puddle slowing evaporating in the center of the bathtub.

You activate the already heated water, and your whole body is flooded with hot spray. Instead of reviving you, it makes you fall into a trance. You're moaning, and suddenly Serena's image takes possession of your imagination. The whole environment disappears, and all of a sudden, your body becomes the most important thing in the universe because an enchantment seems to settle there. You're still moaning, warmed by the boiling water and the notion of what Serena did here a few minutes ago. Of course, you recognize the signs of sexual needs rising in you. This implosive emptiness that prevented you from functioning seems to enlarge, but it feeds on that new desire that overcomes you.

In reverberation, you can imagine Serena's sobs of pleasure and that propels you. You lean against the wall and slip your hand to your crotch. The boiling water reaches the inside your thighs and you whimper even more. Surprisingly, you are so ready that your vagina is already throbbing, your lips are already swollen and pinkish, and yet you haven't provoked any physical stimulation. In contact with your lower lips, you lose your breath when you realize how wet you are. In a few strokes, you manage to wet your lower lips and opening with only two fingers.

Once again, you wonder how can Serena be able to upturn your moods so effortlessly. Yes, she manipulates you like the willing puppet that you are, for the reason that you let yourself be so responsive. Maybe she holds the secret codes, the good strings? You know she doesn't want you to doubt yourself, to burden yourself with doubts. Serena wants you to let go. That's what you agree to do. Your ultra-sensitive fingers begin to caress your labia, press around your clitoris without touching it directly, to prolong the pleasure. No fright, no frustration.

You allow yourself to remember the embrace of the last night. By closing your eyes tightly, you almost hope to be transported there. You still feel Serena's breath against your neck, the softness of her skin, the grip of her hands on your hips, the strength of her thigh against your pubis, your palms on her breasts, the daring words murmured to encourage you.

Ardent, panting, you open your eyes to recollect. Seeing the shower curtain, you remember that Serena also whimpered in the same place as you, almost in sync, here. But you weren't there, and therefore weren't not responsible for these cries of pleasure. _Too coward, too clumsy_. No, no, this is not the time for guilt and regret. _Concentrate_.

Does Serena caress herself differently than you? Does she like to be touched here? Does she prefer that? Does she stand like this? Does she groan, sometimes? Does she bend her knees for better access? Does her other hand cups her breasts? Does she rock her hips? Without noticing it, you slip two fingers inside you, which is something you usually don't do. The flooding water facilitates the nature of your caresses. Everything is drawn naturally, as if you were obeying a superior force. Your thumb weighs on your clit while your fingers press inside, massaging the walls. The entrance to your sex is already starting to contract around your fingers and that's where you imagine Serena's face climaxing. This is where you hypothetically reconstruct the image of Serena reaching orgasm. You do not imagine the nakedness of her body, you concentrate preferably on her beautifully expressive features. You are not alone, you are accompanied by Serena, you are enveloped by her. It's not so much the visual - though bewitching - but rather the very idea of Serena in ecstasy, mouth joyfully grimacing and eyes closed, out of control, enjoying herself, which activates the sparks of explosions and the thrilling shivers through your being.

Your orgasm is so powerful and revealing that you've lost the notion of time. Pushing you on the tip of your toes, your orgasm is meandering and tremendous. For the first time, you feel liberated. The sensory experience is incomparable. You have water in your eyes, in your ears, in your mouth, on your vulva. You mistake that boiling presence for Serena's soothing shade that protects you from frustration that isn't overbearing. You do not feel any frustration, no impatience, no desire to cry. You're only trying to catch your breath, laughing. Laughing with relief. You laugh while dipping your head under the stream of water. It's been a long time since you've heard the echo of your own laughter.

As if they were in the same room as you, you envision Serena's teasing chuckle and her shining eyes full of mischief. You assume that Serena laughs, too, after climaxing. You wonder if she would be proud of you. Asking the question is answering it. Right now, precisely, you can't bother to imagine some discomfort when you'll arrive at the hospital. The contented shudders in your being are preventing you from getting alarmed, you are too busy appreciating them.

For the first time since ... to tell the truth, you don't know since when, but you perceive on the horizon a promise of healing. The inviting landscapes of normality seem within your reach. Your body and mind seem aligned, intended for healthy omens.

**

The morning oxygen and the route of routine have moderated the jolts of your thoughts, as positive as they are, because you have a job to do. You put on the metaphorical mask of a surgeon. Having made a detour to Pulses for caffeine, unable to find Serena, you decide to put the hot coffee on the desk of your colleague hoping she'll be able to taste it before it cools down.

Oh, how you'd like to run towards Serena, take her in your arms, lift her from the ground and twirl her in the air to thank her! Oh, how much you wish to push the door open of your office without warning and scream your happiness! Oh, how you want to grab Serena's hands in yours, stare straight into her confident eyes and whisper a thank you for her witching enchantment. Something has realigned in your being and you have the impression of reconnecting with the Bernie Wolfe who existed before the arrival of frustration. There does not seem to be any emptiness in you, no precipice to jump into.

You haven't fully settled at work yet, and you are already requested to take a case of a first patient who, unfortunately, does not have the chance to be in a situation as lenient as yours. Consequently, you suppress your early jubilation and you get to work, seeking from the corner of your eye for Serena's silhouette, all while being totally devoted to your patients.

**

The day is moving fast. No tragedy has arisen, however there is a multitude of consultations for stable cases. Cuts, hernias, sprains.

You haven't found the opportunity to take some time to heartily speak with Serena. In the corridors and among the stretchers, you walk by each other, you discuss about certain cases and requests for authorization and transfers. With your efficiency and your sense of priority, you take under your responsibility all the stabilized cases on the floor, with the help of nurses and first year doctors, in order for Serena to focus on finalizing records related to the disastrous episode that happened two days ago. Your heart breaks to the idea of her deceased patient.

Time flies and your belly gurgles. Going through the cafeteria, you bring back two sandwiches. Walking to your office, you take a full bite. With all the peaceful happiness that sparkles in you, you couldn't realize how hungry you were. With your mouth full, you push the door of your office and you are stopped by what you see.

Literally crushed in her chair and rather cranky, Serena mumbles, head tilted back, massaging her temples with pressed fingers. She does look in need of a break. Sympathizing, you approach her to offer a sandwich. Regrettably, she jumps at your sight.

"Oh, can you please wear louder shoes, please?" she reprimands, with her hand on her heart. She sits up in her seat.

You smile and wave the sandwich in front of her. Hands in the air and groaning from relief, she seems to thank the sky.

"Ah, you are my guardian angel!" she says without even looking at you, quickly attacking her snack. The sounds of her chewing equalize the importance of her hunger.

"Oh, have you eaten something?" she worries about the bite she has just taken. You point to your mouthful as an answer.

You sit on the sofa against the wall, in front of her chair, and you decompress. You feel the professionalism give way to relaxation. On the other side of the wall, you hear the muffled voices of the employees, the vague technical sounds, the distant rolling of the stretchers. Only here in your recluse office, you can rest. Both of you eat in a silent companionship.

"It still haunts me," Serena confesses. With both hands resting on her lap, she holds what's left of her sandwich and she stares at the floor. Her words are deafening in this small space.

What's still haunting her? You can't think of a reaction. Do you have to question her? Is the previous night you spent together haunting her? Does she feel remorse? Is she uncomfortable? You've ruined everything, it's all your fault, you're too naive, too impressionable. You should've imposed a limit to the generosity of your friend, your newfound closeness defies logic and -

"I can still see the whole scenario, he is there on the operating table, completely trusting me, and suddenly the pulse is at zero, that high-pitched tone of death screaming from the machines." Serena puts the remaining piece of her sandwich in her mouth, defeated. "This inanimate sound scares me more than anything in the world."

Her deceased patient, _of course_. The death of her last patient in surgery still haunts her. _Idiotic and vain that you are._

"I can't stand being responsible, I simply can't take away that guilt." Serena finally looks at you, shocked.

"You're not responsible for his death, it was not a misguided manoeuvre. He plainly didn't support the intervention."

"I thought the surgery was going to be okay, everything was under control. Now, the only thing I can think of is questioning all of our protocols," she points to the door leading outside the office to designate the stabilized patients. "How do we know it's not going to happen to them?"

She pinches her lips, probably to control the stammering of emotions growing to the surface of her eyes.

"There is no way we can know for sure," you begin. "Serena, you're a great surgeon, don't put so much weight on your shoulders. You've always known how to keep working with this reality of death being nearby. You've always done it, you have that unwavering strength in you."

Serena's facial features underline a need that you recognize too well, the famous doubt. This uncertainty that prevents to execute. Except that as a surgeon, the doubt must be replaced by the assurance of control and excellence for the well-being of the hospital and for the survival of patients. You see in Serena this ulterior motive which sows uncertainty, which prevents to be enterprising. She needs certainty, where she can feel indispensable and dependable. It's not to fill a personal satisfaction, but rather to bring a recovery for the irreparable harm. A balance in the universe.

"I feel unsatisfied. I know I'm not infallible, but it made me feel weak."

Serena sighs loudly, expelling her sentiment. Her gaze seems far away, as if it were projected elsewhere. You think she is so beautiful, even in troubled times. She is precious, gifted, spirited, resourceful and her self-doubt breaks your heart. This accentuates your desire to protect her, reassure her. Again, always.

"I can't imagine how you've done it, working in such difficult conditions, in the eastern desert under the improvised shelters, with cases lost in advance. You've always impressed me," Serena adds.  

You airily raise a hand between your bodies, to impose an interruption of these compliments.

"Stop. My situation isn't better, look where it got me. Kept me from living my life," you state with a tone of bitterness and self-mockery.

"It's never too late to come true," she quickly follows. Gradually, you see the features of her composed temperament redrawing on her face.

"Nor too early to forgive oneself after a patient's death," you mutter to Serena'a grief.

Serena offers a wary smile.

"I sense a force in me that wants to burst. A force that wishes to punish or avenge me? Maybe to seek out the best of me? Argh, sometimes it makes me feel… longing for something, to express something that I can't identify. "

"Something grandiose?" you answer quickly because you identify this need. Frustration hides behind her dissatisfaction and guilt. A need for transformation.

"Grandiose?" Serena thinks and acquiesces. "Yes, that's it. I am in need of something bigger than me, something remote and unattainable."

Suddenly, her eyes are questioning.

"Oh no, don't tell me this frustration of yours is contagious!" she teases, falsely upset before bursting into laughter.

The buzzing reappears in your ears. Your mouth is agape, you were not prepared of engaging the subject of your sexual frustration at the moment. It must show, your eyes must be as round as planets because your mortified look is reflected in the eyes of your friend who quickly stops laughing. She regrets her comment while maintaining a touch of lightness.

"Oh Bernie, I'm kidding, sorry, sorry ... I shouldn't make fun of something that's still sensitive to you." You recognize her sincerity.

"No, no worries, you can tease me about it as much as you want. Because…because, it's better." Indeed, you feel more comfortable than you thought talking about the frustration that Serena participated in eradicating, as a confidante and accomplice.

Intrigued, Serena leaves her chair in order to sit next to you, so close that your left thigh is pressing against her right thigh. You feel her presence throughout your body. You want to moan with embarrassment and envy. Her breath is scorching near your cheek. Without even being able to see it, because you're staring straight ahead instead of looking at your friend, you know very well that Serena displays her mischievous look, tongue-in-cheek. She understands the power she has over you.

"Oh, really? So, it's better, or _better_?"

All that is missing is a nudge of the shoulder highlighting her connivance. You don't know what's the difference between better and _better_ , so you're giggling and Serena joins in. Your laughter rings out across the room, a laugh of spontaneous happiness, shoving away the tension of death and frustration.

"It's a lot better," you simply repeat what you've said between smiles.

"What did you do? Oh, come on, don't get suddenly shy on me."

You have destroyed so many relationships in the past. You are so afraid of destroying the closeness developing between Serena and you. Your friendship takes a curious path, surreal but true. You promised to remain a spectator, to let Serena decide and to protect her. Besides, her power on you is indestructible and Serena seems to realize it as you get closer and closer. You like her to take the advantage. This is your opportunity to confess about this morning's revolution, to express your gratitude and appreciation.

But this break in your office is temporary. At any time, the red code alarm can be triggered and you'd be interrupted. But you can't let this opportunity slip away without seizing it.

"I didn't cry, this morning, um, in the shower."

Without saying more, you hope Serena intercepts your coded language. She succeeds, because instantly and without filter, she opens her arms and invites you for a congratulating hug. You accept her embrace as a reward for your confession. Again, you find yourself in the arms of your friend, your chin resting on her shoulder, where you feel her short hair tickling your cheek. You recognize the smell of your shampoo and you let yourself nestle against the comfort of her embrace. Your arms surround her back, and you slightly blush when you distinguish her bra under her blouse. Serena's arms hold you firmly enough so that you can't escape too quickly.

You get a quick kiss on the forehead, the second of the day, before your embrace ends. Your friend is relieved and happy for you, you perceive it in her posture.

"There are so many things I would like to say to you ... I ... I'd like to thank you so much, to return the favor, I mean, um ...," you stammer, and your eyes try to speak but they're fooling you. You try to formulate in a different way, "... to give back, I mean, to offer the equivalent, I mean to give you something that you want, what you need, I mean, um…"

"Bernie, it's okay, breathe." Serena laughs. "You should see yourself, you look so mystified by your own words."

"All I want is the chance to help you as much as you've helped me." Finally, you have found consistency and conciseness. Without thinking, without trying to understand why, you gently take her hand and you kiss the top of her fingers. Serena looks at you intensely.

"I was afraid you'd say that," she admits. Her tone is daring, cavernous, but not dangerous.

Since the powerful pounding of your heart has not diminished, you hardly hear Serena's answer. You have the impression of hallucinating the heat that emerges from the body of your friend, her fingers becoming boiling in your hands. You feel like you're circling around Serena again and again, with her being in the center of your vision. She is everywhere.

"You were?" You're shaking slightly. Fear? Isn't she the one constantly repeating there shouldn't be fears between the two of you?

"Yes, because now that you have proposed ... I can't refuse." Serena stares at your mouth, short of breath.

Remarkably, the fog of lightness, this transparent protection, similar to a beneficent enchantment, floating above you, turns into haunting bewitchment. Courageous, Serena is the one who follows suit.

"Bernie, would you like to come to my house tonight?"

The strong roots of your friendship don't solely sink deeper into the linking of your relationship, they cling and feed each other to grow together.

 

 


End file.
